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filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
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derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
o'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plet.  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmAs  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  derniire  pege  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  dee  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
derniAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  etre 
film*s  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diffArents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich*.  ii  est  film*  A  partir 
de  I'angle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nicessaire.  Los  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m*thode. 


1 

2 

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6 

MICROCOPY    RESOIUTION    TEST   CHART 

ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2 


1- 

IIIIM 

r-' 

m 

1^ 

1^ 

12:0 

1.4 


1.8 


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_£    APPLIED  IM/IGE    Inc 


'65J  East  MO'^  St-ee' 

Roc-sst.r  Ne,  ^ork    U609   USA 

(''6;  482  -  0300  -  Phon? 

(?'6)  288  -  5989  -  fa« 


THE  PRETENDER 


In  deferoruo  to  the  opinion  of  the  publishers  the 
Author  hat  consontPiJ  to  certain  alterations  being 
niado  in  his  work. 


THE  PRETENDER 

A  Story  of  the  Latin  (Quarter 


BY 


ROBERT  W.  SERVICE 

AUTHOB   OK    "SoMOi   OV   A    SoLHDOUOll, I'llAU. 

OK  'W,"  rrc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODl),    MEAD  &   COMPANY 

1914 


115651 


CorvRioirr,  ('ami>a,  I«I4 
U\  KOBKKT  W.  SKKVICK 


V«IL.i«LLOU     COMUNy 


THE  PRETENDER 


"Of  Rooks   nn.I   Srril..  <»   tli.r.'   aiv   t.o  mil: 
I'lii-  IMaj.Mi. — iiiKl  w|,„  ,.;,„  ,j,,„|,,   j{., 
I)i>ina\>  in..  ><..   \\,.  ,.„||^    |„.„,„.,i 
■  liiiithii    l)(«)k   iildmi   it." 


CONTENTS 


CUAPTKB 

BOOK  I— Till.  (  HALI.F.NCiE 
I     TiiK    ilxpiMKvr    Vnrxct   Man    in    .Manhattan 

II        Thk     SiIEEI'     and     the     (ioATS      . 
Ill        (Mdl.IKU     KiDNKV     AND     Ha(  ON 

IN'  An     I'nintentiunal     I'iiii-anhkhkm 

V  A    Sk\m(k     Skntimentai.ist 

VI  An    Involtntahy    Fiance    . 

VII  A   Bati  i.E   OF    Ink 

VIII  The  CiiiiL  Wiio  Looked  Intehestino 

IX  The  C'iiEwiN(i  (iuM   of   Destiny 

X  The  YorN(i  Man  Who  Makes  (iouu 


I 

II 
III 
IV 

y 

VI 

VII 

VIII 

IX 

X 


I 
II 


I'AI.K 

I 
10 

'.'0 
•J  8 
1(1 
18 
(11 
fi'.» 
78 
8'.> 


BOOK  II— THE  STRLGGI.E 

The     Newly-meds 

That  Ml'ddle-IIeaded  Santa  CLAtP 
The    City    of    Light    .... 
The    City   of    Laughter    . 

The  City  of  Love 

Getting   Dow.v   to   Cases    . 
The   Merry   .^Ionth  of   May    . 
"  To.M,  Dick  and  Harry  "   . 
An    Cnexpected    Develop.ment    . 
The  Life  and  Death  of  Dorothy 


lUl 
lU 
123 
133 
U5 
l.-)6 
lOfi 
181 
IM.i 
Madden  v.'()1 


BOOK  ill  — THE  AWAKENING 

The  Stkess  of  the  Struggle 215 

The     Darkest    Hoir 231 


CONTKNTS 

(  H.MTKK 

IFI       TlIK      Dwvx 

I\'      A    CiiAi'TKU    That    liK(ii.vs    W'ki.i. 
Hadly     

V        The      (illKAT      (^IIKTI  S 

\'l      TiiK    Shadow    oi-    Si(  c  kss    . 
\'ll      'I'hk     I'atk    ok     1  amk     . 

N'lII         'I'llK    MaNM  FA*  TIIIK    OV    A    X'll.T.AIN 

IX      A   (hkvik    a.no    a    ('iik<k 

X        I'mXt  K      l.F     I)ltKAMI::H!j      . 


PA(.K 


A  N  1 


KNDS 


15 1  7 
3'Jii 


BOOK  I  — THE  CHALLENGE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  HAPPIEST  YOUNG  MAN  IN  MANHATTAN 

To  have  omnibus  tastes  and  an  automobile  income  — 
how  ironic? 

With  this  reflexion  I  let  myself  collapse  into  a  padded 
chair  of  transcendent  comfort,  lit  a  cigarette  and  in- 
spected  once   more   the   amazing  bank-book.     Since   I 
had  seen  it  last  several  credit  entries  had  been  made  — 
over  twenty   thousand  dollars;  and  in  the  meantime, 
dawdling  and  dreaming  in  the  woods  of  Maine,  all  I 
had   managed    to    squander    was    a    paltry    thousand. 
Being  a  man  of  imagination  I  sought  for  a  simile.     As 
I  sat  there  by  the  favourite  window  of  my  favourite 
club  I  could  see  great  snowflakes  falling  in  the  quiet 
square,  and  at  that  moment  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
too  was  standing  under  a  snowfall,  a  snowfall  of  dol- 
lars steadily  banking  me  about. 

For  a  moment  I  revelled  in  the  charming  vision,  then 
like  a  flash  it  changed.  Now  I  could  see  two  figures 
locked  in  Homeric  combat.  Like  a  serene  over-soul  I 
watched  them,  I,  philosopher,  life-critic;  for  was  not 
one  of  them  James  H.  Madden,  a  man  of  affairs,  the 
other,  J.  Horace  Madden,  dilettante  and  dreamer.  .  .  . 
Look !  from  that  clutter  of  stale  snow  a  form  springs 
triumphant.  Hurrah!  It  is  the  near-poet,  the  man 
on  the  side  of  the  angels.— And  so  rejoiced  was  1  at 


2  THE  PRETENDER 

this  issue  tluit  I  regarded  the  little  bank-book  ahnost 
resentfully. 

"Figures,  figures,"  I  sighed,  "what  do  you  mean  to 
nic?  Crabbed  symbols  on  a  smudgy  page!  can  vou 
buy  for  me  that  fresh  Spring-morning  feeling  in  the 
brain,  that  rapture  of  a  fine  thing  finely  done?  Ah 
no!  the  luxury  you  spell  means  care  and  worry.  In 
comfort  is  contentment.  And  am  I  not  content?  '  \ay ! 
in  all  Manhattan  is  there  man  more  happy?  Young, 
famous,  free  — could  life  possibly  be  more  charming? 
And  so  in  my  tower  of  tranquillity  let  mo  work  and 
dream;  and  every  now  and  then,  little  book,  vour  totals 
will  grow  absurd,  and  I  will  look  at  you'  and  say: 
'  Figures,  figures,  what  do  you  mean  to  me?  '  " 

"  But,  after  all,"  I  went  on  to  reflect,  "  Money  is  not 
so  utterly  a  nuisance.  Pleasant  indeed  to  think  that 
when  most  are  pondering  over  the  problem  of  the  per- 
manent meal-ticket,  you  are  yourself  well  settled  on  the 
sunny  side  of  Easy  Street.  Poets  have  piped  of  Ar- 
cady,  have  chorused  of  Bohemia,  have  expressed  their 
enthusiasm  for  Elysian  fields,  but  who  has  come  to 
chant  the  praise  of  Easy  Street?  Yet  surely  it  is 
the  kindliest  of  all?  Behind  its  smiling  windows  are 
no  maddening  constraints,  no  irking  servitudes,  no 
tyranny  of  time.  Just  sunshine,  laughter,  mockery  of 
masters  —  Oh,  a  thousand  times  blessed,  golden,  glori- 
ous Easy  Street !  " 

Here  I  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette  and  settled  more 
snugly  in  that  chair  of  kingly  comfort. 

"  Behold  in  me,"  I  continued  lazily,  "  a  being  spe- 
cially favoured  of  the  gods.  Born  if' not  with  a  silver 
spoon  in  my  mouth  at  least  with  one  of  a  genteel  quality 
of  nickel,  blest  with  a  boyhood  notably  cheering  and 


i 


THE  HAPPIEST  YOUNG  MAN  3 

serene,  griintcd  while  still  in  my  teens  success  that 
others  figlit  for  to  the  grave's  edge,  untouched  by  a 
single  sorrow,  unthwurted  by  a  solitary  defeat  —  does 
it  not  sceni  us  if  my  path  in  life  had  been  ever  preceded 
by  an  Olympian  steam  roller  macadamising  the  way? 

'*  True,  as  to  appearance,  the  gods  have  failed  to 
flatter  me.  If  you,  gentle  reader,  who  are  as  perfect 
as  the  Apollo  Belvedere,  gaze,  at  your  chiselled  features 
in  the  silver  side  of  your  morning  tea-pot,  you  will  get 
a  good  idea  of  mine.  But  there  —  I  refer  you  to  a  copy 
of  Wisdom  for  Women,  the  well-known  feminist  Weekly. 
It  contains  an  illustrated  interview,  one  of  that  cele- 
brated series.  Lions  in  their  Dens.     Harken  unto  this : 

"A  tall,  tight-lipped  young  man,  eager,  yet  abstracted; 
eyes  quizzical,  mouth  a  straight  line,  brow  of  a  dreamer, 
chin  of  a  Hirtatious  stockbroker.  His  gleaming  glasses 
suggest  the  journalist,  his  prominent  nose  the  tank-town 
tragedian.  Add  to  that  that  he  has  a  complexion  un«sthet- 
ieally  sanguine,  and  that  his  flaxen  hair,  receding  from  his 
forehead,  gives  him  a  fictitious  look  of  intellectuality,  and 
you  have  a  combination  easier  to  describe  than  to  im- 
agine. .   .   ." 

"  What  a  blessing  it  is  wc  cannot  sec  ourselves  as 
others  see  us!  How  it  would  fill  life  with  intolerable 
veracities!  Dear  lady  who  wrote  the  above,  I  can 
forgive  vou  for  the  Roman  nose,  for  the  flirtatious 
chin,  nay,  even  for  the  fictitious  intellectuality  of  my 
noble  brow,  but  for  one  thing  I  can  never  think  of 
vou  with  joy.  You  wrote  of  me  that  I  was  '  a  mould 
of  fashion  and  a  glass  of  form.'  Since  then,  alas!  I 
have  been  compelled  to  live  up  to  your  description. 
Bohemian  to  the  backbone,  lover  of  the  flannel  suit 


4  THE  PRETENDER 

of  froedom  and  the  silken  shirt  of  case,  how  I  have 
suffered  in  such  clutch  of  comme-il-faut  no  tongue  can 
tell.  Yet  thanks  to  a  Fifth  Avenue  tailor  even  a  little 
sartorial  success  has  fallen  to  my  lot." 

Success!  some  men  seem  to  have  a  magic  power  of 
attracting  it,  and  I  think  I  must  be  one.  Sitting  there 
in  the  window  of  the  club,  as  I  watched  the  shadows 
steal  into  the  square,  and  the  snow  thicken  to  a  flutter- 
ing curtain  I  positively  purred  with  satisfaction.  Be- 
hind me  the  silent  library  was  lit  only  by  a  fire  of 
glowing  coals.  The  jocund  light  gleamed  on  the  carved 
oak  of  the  book-cases,  and  each  diamond  pane  winked 
jovially.  Yet  cheerful  though  it  was  my  thoughts 
were  far  more  rosy. 

But  now  my  reverie  was  being  broken.  Two  men 
were  approaching,  and  by  their  voices  I  knew  them 
to  be  Quince  the  critic  and  Vaine  the  poet.  The  first 
was  a  representative  of  the  School  of  Suds,  the  second 
an  exponent  of  the  School  of  Sediment ;  but  as  neither 
were  included  in  the  number  of  my  more  intimate  ene- 
mies I  did  not  turn  to  greet  them. 

Goring  Quince  is  a  stall-fed  man  with  a  purple  face, 
cotton-coloured  hair  and  supercilious  eyebrows.  He  is 
an  incubator  of  epigrams.  His  articles  are  riots  of 
rhetoric,  and  it  is  marvellous  how  completely  he  can 
drown  a  poor  little  idea  in  a  vat  of  verbiage. 

Herrick  Vaine  is  a  puffy,  pimply  person,  with  a 
mincing  manner  and  an  emasculated  voice.  He  might 
have  been  a  poet  of  note  but  for  two  things:  while 
reading  his  work  you  always  have  a  feeling  that  you 
have  seen  something  oddly  like  it  before;  and  after 
you  have  read  it  all  you  retain  is  a  certain  dark-brown 
taste  on  the  mental  palate.     Otherwise  he  is  all  right. 


THE  HAPPIEST  YOUNG  MAN  6 

And  now,  liaving  described  the  principals,  let  me 
record  the  little  dialogue  to  which  I  was  the  unseen 
listener. 


Vaixe  {icith  elaborate  carelessnesn) :  By  the  way, 
you  haven't  read  my  latest  book,  I  suppose? 

Quince  (coaingli/) :  Why  yes,  my  boy.  I  lost  no 
time  in  reading  it.  I  positively  wallowed  —  I 
uv'-n  revelled  in  it.  Reminds  me  of  Baude- 
1j.  .0  in  spots.  Without  you  and  a  chosen  few 
what  would  literature  be? 

Vaixe  (enraptured):  How  lovely  of  you  to  say  so. 
You  know  I  value  your  opinion  more  than  any 
in  the  world. 

QrixcE  {waving  his  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses)  :  Not 
at  all.  Merely  my  duty  as  a  watchdog  of 
letters.  Yes,  I  thought  your  Songs  Saturnalian 
in  a  class  by  itself;  but  now  I  can  say  without 
being  accused  of  a  lapse  of  literary  judgment 
that  your  Poems  Plutonian  marks  a  distinct 
epoch  in  modern  poetry.  There  is  an  undefin- 
able  something  in  your  work,  a  je  ne  sais  quoi 
.  .  .  you  know. 

Vaixe:     Yes;  thank  you,  thank  you. 
Qi'Ixce:     Is  it  selling,  by  the  way? 
Vaixe:     Thank  heaven,  no!     How  banal!     Popular 
success   would    imply   artistic    failure.     To   the 
public    true    art    must    always    be    inaccessible. 
If  ever  I  find  my  work  becoming  bourgeois,  it 
will    be    because    I     have     committed    artistic 
suicide.     On   my   bended   knees   I   pray    to   be 
delivered  from  popularity. 
QrixcE:     I  see.     You  prefer  the  award  of  posterity 


THE  pretp:nder 


to  the  reward  of  prosperity.  Well,  no  doubt 
time  will  bring  you  your  meed  of  recognition. 
In  the  meantime  give  me  a  copy  of  the  poems, 
and  I  will  review  it  in  next  week's  Compass. 

Vaixe:  Will  you  indeed.  That  honour  alone 
will  repay  me  for  writing  it.  By  the  way,  I 
imagine  I  saw  a  copy  in  the  library.  Ix't  me 
look. 

(As  Vaine  had  put  it  there  himself  his  doubt 
seemed  a  little  superfluous.  He  switched  on  a 
light,  and  from  the  ranked  preciosity  of  a 
certain  shelf  he  selected  a  slim,  gilt  volume.) 

Vaixk:     Poems  PhitonUin. 

(^I'lNCK  (taking  it  in  his  fat,  soft  Juinds)  :  How 
utterly  exquisite!  What  charming  generosity 
of  margin ! 

Vaixe  :  Yes ;  you  know  the  great  fault  of  books, 
to  my  mind,  is  that  they  contain  printed  matter. 
Some  day  I  dream  of  writing  a  book  that  shall 
be  nearly  all  margin,  a  book  from  which  the 
crudely  obvious  shall  be  eliminated,  a  book  of 
exquisite  intrusion,  of  supremo  suggestion, 
where  magic  words  like  rosaries  of  pearls  shall 
glimmer  down  the  pages.  I  really  think  that 
books  are  the  curse  of  literature.  If  every 
writer  were  compelled  to  grave  his  works  on 
brass  and  copper  from  how  much  that  is  vain 
and  vapid  would  we  not  be  delivered.'' 

QnxcE:  Ah,  yes!  Still  books  have  their  advan- 
tages. Here,  for  example,  am  I  going  to  burn 
the  incense  of  a  cigar  before  the  putrescent  —  I 
mean    the    iridescent    altar    of    art.     Now    if 


THE  HAPPIEST  YOUNG  MAN 


Poems  Plutonian  were  inscribed  on  brass  or 
stont'  I  confess  I  should  hesitate.  What  are 
those  things? 

(He  pointed  to  a  separate  shelf,  on  which 
stood  nine  volumes  with  somewhat  aggressive 
covers.) 

Vaixe:  Well  mav  you  ask.  Brazen  strumpets  who 
have  stumbled  into  the  temple  of  Apollo. 
These,  my  dear  sir,  arc  the  so-called  novels  of 
Norman  Dane.  You  see,  -s  a  member  of  the 
club,  he  is  supposed  to  give  the  library  a  copy 
of  his  books.  We  all  hoped  he  wouldn't,  but 
he  came  egregiously  forward.  Of  course  we 
couldn't  refuse  the  monstrous  things. 

Qiixce:  No,  I  understand.  What's  this?  The 
Yellow  Streak:  Two  hundred  thousand!  The 
Dipsomaniac:  Sixth  Edition!!  Rattlesnake 
Ranch:  Tenth  Impression!!!  Why,  what  a 
disgusting  lot  of  money  the  man  must  be 
making! 

Vaixe:  Yes,  the  Indiana  Idol,  the  Boy  Bestseller- 
monger.  A  perfect  bounder  as  regards  Art. 
But  he  knows  how  to  truckle  to  the  mob.  His 
books  sell  by  the  ton.  They're  so  bad,  they're 
almost  good. 

Qiixce  {with  surprising  feeling)  :  There!  I  don't 
agree  with  you.  He  doesn't  even  know  how 
to  please  the  public.  It  takes  a  clever  man  to 
do  that,  and  Norman  Dane  is  only  a  dry- 
goods  clerk  spoiled.  No,  the  point  is  —  he  is 
the  public,  the  apotheosis  of  the  vulgar  intelli- 
gence.    Don't  think  for  a  moment  he  is  writing 


8  THE  PRETENDER 

down  to  the  level  of  the  mob.  He  charms  the 
great  half-educated  because  he  himself  belongs 
to  them.     He  can't  help  it. 

Vaine:  Yes,  but  there  are  so  many  plebeian  novel- 
ists. How  do  you  account  for  Dane's  spectacu- 
lar success? 

QriNCE:  A  fool's  luck!  He  happened  to  hit  the 
psychological  moment.  When  he  leaped  into 
the  lists  with  Th€  Haunted  Taxirab  taxis  had 
just  come  out,  and  at  the  same  moment  there 
was  8  mania  for  mystery  stories.  Take  two 
popular  motifs,  mix  recklessly,  spice  with 
sentiment  and  sauce  with  sensation  —  there  you 
have  the  recipe  of  a  bestseller.  His  book  fluked 
into  favour.  His  publishers  put  their  weight 
behind  it.  In  a  month  he  found  himself  famous 
from  Maine  to  Mexico.  But  he  couldn't  do  it 
again ;  no,  not  in  a  thousand  years.  What  has 
he  done  since?  Live  on  his  name.  Step  cun- 
ningly in  his  tracks.  Bah!  I  tell  you  Nor- 
man Dane's  an  upstart,  a  faker;  to  the  very 
heart  of  him  a  shallow,  ignorant  pretender.  .  .  . 


Whatever  else  the  poor  chap  might  be  was  lost  in 
the  distance  as  the  two  men  moved  away.  For  a  long 
time  after  they  had  gone  I  did  not  stir.  The  fluttering 
snow-butterflies  seemed  to  have  become  great  moths, 
that  hovered  in  the  radiance  of  the  nearest  arc-light 
and  dashed  to  a  watery  doom.  Pensively  I  gazed  into 
that  greenish  glamour,  pulling  at  a  burnt-out  cigarette. 

At  last  I  rose,  and  going  to  the  book-case  regarded 
the  nine  volumes  of  flamboyant  isolation. 


THE  HAPPIEST  YOUNG  MAN  9 

"An  upstart,"  I  sighed  softlj;  "ft  faker,  a  pre- 
tender .  .  ." 

And  to  tell  the  truth  I  was  sorely  taken  aback ;  for 
you  see  in  my  hours  of  industry  I  am  a  maker  of  books 
and  my  pen  name  is  Norman  Dane. 


CHAPTER  II 

THK  SHEEP  AND  THE  GOATS 

WiiKTifKii  or  not  a  sense  of  humour  is  an  attribute  of 
the  Divine,  I  am  too  ignorant  of  theology  to  conjec- 
ture; but  I  am  sure  that  as  a  sustaining  power  amid 
the  tribulations  of  life  it  is  one  of  the  blessedest  of  dis- 
pensations. 

For  a  moment,  I  must  confess,  the  words  of  Quince 
and  Vaine  stung  me  to  resentment.  Being  one  of 
these  people  who  think  in  moving  pictures,  I  had  a 
gratifying  vision  in  which  I  was  clutching  them  sav- 
agely and  knocking  their  heads  together.  Then  the 
whole  thing  struck  me  on  the  funny  side,  and  a  little 
page  boy,  entering  to  turn  on  the  lights,  must  have 
been  amazed  to  hear  me  burst  into  sudden  laughter. 

So  that  presently,  as  Mr.  Quince,  having  spilt  some 
cigar  ash  over  the  still  uncut  leaves  of  Poems  Plutonian, 
was  arising  to  daintily  dust  the  volume,  I  approached 
him  with  a  bright  and  happy  smile. 

"  Hullo,  Quince,"  I  began,  cheerily. 

He  looked  up.  His  eyes  gleamed  frosty  interroga- 
tion, and  his  clipped  grey  moustache  seemed  to  bristle 
in  his  purple  face. 

"What  is  it?  "he  grunted. 

"  It's  about  that  matter  we  spoke  of  this  morning. 
Vou  know  I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  I've  decided 
to  go  on  that  note  of  yours." 

Quince  was  astonished.  He  was  also  overjoyed;  but 
his  manner  was  elaborately  off-hand. 


THE  SHEEP  AND  THE  GOATS 


11 


"Ah!  Thanks  awfully,  Madden.  Only  a  matter  of 
renewal,  you  know.  Old  endorser  went  off  to  Europe, 
and  the  bank  got  after  me.  Well,  you'll  go  on  the 
note,  then?" 

"  Yes,  on  one  condition." 

"Hum!  Condition!  What?"  he  demanded  anx- 
iously. 

"  Well,"  I  said.  "  I  believe  one  good  turn  deserves 
another.  Now  I  was  down  at  the  bank  this  morning, 
and  I  know  you're  in  rather  h  hole  about  that  renewal. 
Backers  for  thousand  dollar  notes  aren't  picked  up  so 
easily.  However,  I'm  willing  to  go  on  it  if  you'll " — 
here  I  paused  deliberately,  "  give  my  last  book  a  good 
write  up  in  your  next  Compass  causerie." 

His  face  fell.     "  I'm  afraid  —  you  see,  I've  promised 
Vuine  — " 

"  Oh,  hang  Vainc !     Sidetrack  him." 
"  But  —  there's  the  policy  of  the  paper  — " 
"  Oh,  well,  I'll  buy  a  controlling  interest,  and  rlter 
your  policy.     But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you  know         '11 
print  anything  over  your  name." 

«  Yes  —  well,  there  are  my  own  standards,  the  ideals 
I  have  fought  for  — " 

"  Rot !  Look  here.  Quince,  let's  be  honest.  We're 
both  in  the  writing  game  for  wliat  we  can  get  out  of 
it.  We  may  strut  and  brag;  but  we  know  in  our  hearts 
there's  none  of  us  of  much  account.  Why,  man,  show 
me  half  a  dozen  writers  of  to-day  who'll  be  remembered 
twenty  years  after  they're  dead?  " 
"I*  protest—" 

"  You  know  it's  true.  We're  bagmen  in  a  negligible 
day.  Now,  I  don't  want  you  to  alter  your  standards ; 
all  I  want  of  you  is  to  adjust  them.     You  know  that 


1« 


THE  PRETENDER 


as  soon  as  you  see  a  book  of  mine  coming  along  you 
get  your  knife  out.  You've  flayed  me  from  the  start. 
You  do  it  on  principle.  You've  got  regular  formulas 
of  abuse.  My  characters  are  sticks,  my  plots  chaotic, 
my  incidents  melodramatic.  You  judge  my  work  by 
your  academic  standards.  Don't  do  that.  Don't 
judge  it  us  art  —  judge  it  as  entertainment.  Does  it 
entertain?  " 

"  Possibly  it  does  —  the  average,  unthinking  man." 

"  Precisely.  He's  my  audience.  My  business  is  to 
amuse  him,  to  take  him  outside  of  himself  for  an  hour 
or  two." 

*'  It's  our  duty  to  elevate  his  taste." 

'*  Fiddlesticks !  my  dear  chap.  I  don't  take  myself 
so  seriously  as  that.  And,  anyway,  it's  hopeless.  If 
you  don't  give  him  the  stuff  he  wants,  he  won't  take 
any.  You'll  never  educate  the  masses  to  anything 
higher  than  the  satisfaction  of  their  appetites.  They 
want  frenzied  Action,  plot,  action.  The  men  want  a 
good  yarn,  the  women  sentiment,  and  we  writers  want 
—  the  money." 

'*  It's  a  sad  state  of  affairs,  I  admit." 

"Well,  then,  admit  that  my  books  fill  the  bill. 
They're  good  yarns,  they're  exciting,  they're  healthy. 
Surely  they  don't  deserve  wholesale  condemnation.  So 
go  home,  my  dear  Quince,  and  begin  a  little  screed  like 
this : 


In  the  past  we  have  frequently  found  occasion  to  deal 
severely  with  tlie  novels  of  Norman  Dane,  and  to  regret 
that  he  refuses  to  use  those  high  gifts  he  undoubtedly 
possesses;  but  on  opening  his  latest  novel,  The  House  of  a 
Hundred  Scandals,  we  are  agreeably  surprised  to  note  a 
decided   awakening  of  artistic  conscience. 


THE  SHEEP  AND  THE  GOATS 


IS 


And  so  on.  No  one  knows  how  to  do  it  better  than 
you.  Bring  to  the  bank  to-morrow  a  proof  of  the 
jirticle,  and  I'll  put  my  name  on  the  back  of  your 
note." 

"I  —  I  don't  know.  I'll  think  it  over.  Perhaps 
I've  been  a  little  too  dogmatic.  Let  me  see  —  Literary 
Criticism  and  the  Point  of  View  —  yes,  I'll  see  what  I 
can  do.'* 

As  I  left  him  ruefully  brooding  over  the  idea  I  felt 
suddenly  ashamed  of  myself. 

"  Poor  old  chap !  "  I  thought ;  "  I've  certainly  taken 
a  mean  advantage  of  him.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  may 
be  right  and  I  wrong.  I  begin  to  wonder:  Have  I 
earned  success,  o**  only  achieved  it?  It  seems  to  me 
this  literary  camp  is  divided  into  two  bands,  the  sheep 
and  the  goats,  and,  sooner  or  later,  a  man  must  ask 
himself  which  he  belongs  to.  Am  I  a  sheep  or  am  I  a 
goat.?" 

But  I  quickly  steeled  myself.  Why  should  I  ha%'e 
compunction.?  Was  I  not  ir  a  land  where  money  was 
the  standard  of  success?  Here  then  was  the  virtue  of 
my  bloated  bank-book  —  Power.  Let  them  sneer  at 
me,  these  aesthetic  apes,  these  flabby  degenerates. 
There  by  the  door  was  a  group  of  them,  and  I  ventured 
to  bet  that  they  were  all  in  debt  to  their  tailors.  Yet 
they  regarded  me  as  an  outsider,  a  barbarian.  Look- 
ing around  for  some  object  to  soothe  my  ruffled  feel- 
ings, I  espied  the  red,  beefsteak-and-beer  face  of  Por- 
kinson,  the  broker.  Here  was  a  philistine,  an  un- 
abashed disciple  of  the  money  god.     I  hailed  him. 

Over  our  second  whiskey  I  told  Porkinson  of  the 
affair  in  the  library.  He  laughed  a  ruddy,  rolling 
laugh. 


14 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  What  do  you  care?  "  he  roared  raucously.  "  You 
put  the  stuff  over  and  grab  the  coin  —  that's  the  game, 
isn't  it?  Let  tliose  liighbrow  freaks  knock  you  all 
they  want  —  you've  got  away  with  the  goods.  And, 
anyway,  they've  got  the  wrong  dope.  Why,  I  guess 
I'm  just  as  level-headed  as  the  next  man,  and  I  wouldn't 
give  a  cent  for  the  piffle  they  turn  out.  When  I'm 
running  to  catch  a  train  I  grab  one  of  your  books 
every  time.  I  know  if  there's  none  of  the  boys  on 
board  to  have  a  card  game  with  I've  got  something 
to  keep  nie  from  being  tired  between  drinks.  What  I 
like  about  your  yarns,  old  man,  is  that  they  keep  me 
guessing  all  the  time,  and  the  fellow  never  gets  the 
girl  till  the  last  page.  I  always  skip  a  whole  lot,  I 
get  so  darned  interested.  I  once  read  a  book  of  yours 
clean  through  between  breakfast  and  lunch." 

Thanking  Porkinson  for  his  enthusiasm,  which  some- 
how failed  to  elate  me,  I  took  the  elevator  up  to  my 
apartment  on  the  tenth  story  of  the  club,  Trivers, 
the  artist,  had  a  studio  adjoining  me,  and,  seeing  a  light 
under  his  door,  I  knocked. 

"  Enter,"  called  Travers. 

He  was  a  little  frail  old  man,  with  a  peaked,  grey 
face  framed  in  a  plenitude  of  iron-grey  hair,  and  end- 
ing in  a  white  Vandyke  beard.  A  nervous  trouble  made 
him  twitch  his  right  eye  continually,  sometimes  em- 
phasising his  statements  with  curious  effect.  He  be- 
lieved he  was  one  of  the  greatest  painters  in  the  world ; 
yet  that  very  day  three  of  his  best  pictures  had  been 
refused  by  the  Academy. 

"  I  knew  it,"  he  cried  excitedly ;  "  I  knew  when  I 
xent  them  they'd  come  back.  It's  happened  for  the 
last  ten  years.     They  know  if  they  hung  me  I'd  kill 


THE  SHEEP  AND  THE  GOATS     15 

every  cne  else  in  the  room.  They're  afraid  of  my 
mountains."  (A  wink.)  "Their  little  souls  can't 
conceive  of  any  scenery  beyond  Connecticut.  But  it's 
the  last  time  I'll  send."  (A  wink.)  "I'll  get  recog- 
nition elsewhere,  London,  Paris;  then  when  they  want 
my  pictures  for  their  walls  they'll  have  to  come  and 
beg,  yes,  beg  for  them."     (A  portentous  wink.) 

Every  year  he  vowed  the  same  thing;  every  year 
he  canvassed  the  members  of  the  hanging  committee; 
every  year  his  pictures  came  cruelly  back ;  yet  his  faith' 
in  himself  was  invincible. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  I  said ;  "  you  might  be  one  of 
the  popular  painters  of  the  day  if  you  only  looked 
at  it  right.  Here  you  go  painting  straight  scenery  as 
it  was  in  the  days  before  Adam.  You  object  to  the 
least  hint  of  humanity  —  a  hut,  a  bridge,  a  boat.  My 
dear  sir,  what  the  General  Public  wants  is  the  human, 
the  dramatic.  There's  that  River  Rapids  picture  you 
did  two  years  ago,  and  it's  still  on  your  hands.  Now 
that's  good.  That  water's  alive,  it  boils;  as  I  look 
at  it  I  can  hear  it  roar,  and  feel  t}ie  sting  of  the  spray. 
But  —  it's  straight  water,  and  che  G.P.  won't  take  its 
water  straight.  Now  just  paint  two  men  in  a  birch- 
bark  canoe  going  down  these  rapids.  Paint  in  a  big 
rock,  call  it  A  Close  Shave,  and  you'll  sell  that  picture 
like  winking." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that.  You're  talking  like  a 
tradesman." 

"  There's  that  sunset,"  I  went  on.  "  It's  splendid. 
That  colour  seems  to  burn  a  hole  in  the  canvas.  But 
just  you  paint  in  a  black  cross  against  that  smoulder- 
ing sky,  and  see  how  it  gives  significance,  aye,  and 
poetry  to  the  picture.     Call  it  Tfu?  lone  Grave?' 


I 


16 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  But  don't  you  sec/'  said  Travers,  with  some  irri- 
tation, "  Tuj  trying  to  express  a  mood  of  Nature. 
Surely  there's  enough  poetry  in  Nature  without  trying 
to  drag  in  lone  graves  ?  " 

"  Not  for  the  G.P.  You've  got  to  give  it  sentiment. 
Did  that  millionaire  brewer  buy  anything?  " 

Travers  sighed  rather  wofully. 

"  No,  he  kept  on  asking  me  where  my  pictures  vaere, 
and  I  kept  on  telling  him  they  weren't  anywhere,  they 
were  everywhere ;  they  were  in  his  own  heart  if  he  only 
looked  deep  enough.  They  were  just  moods  of  nature. 
He  couldn't  see  it.  I  believe  he  bought  an  eight  by  ten 
canvas  at  Rosenheimer's  Department  Store:  Moses 
Smiting  the  Hock." 

'*  There  3'ou  are.  Ho  was  getting  more  for  his 
money.  He  wanted  action,  interest.  Daresay  he  had 
the  gush  of  water  coloured  to  look  like  beer.  But  PH 
tell  you  what  I'll  do  —  I'll  give  you  five  hundred  for 
that  thing  you  call  Morning  Mist  in  the  Valley." 

"  Sorry,"  said  Travers,  with  a  look  of  miserable  hesi- 
tation :  "  I  don't  want  to  sell  that.  It's  the  best  thing 
I've  done.     I  want  to  leave  it  to  the  nation." 

"  All  right.     You  know  best.     Good-night." 

I  knew  I  had  offered  more  than  the  market  value  of 
the  picture ;  I  knew  that  Travers  had  not  sold  a  can- 
vas for  months ;  I  knew  that  he  often  ate  only  one  meal 
a  day,  and  that  if  he  chose,  he  could  paint  commercial 
pictures ;  so  I  could  not  but  admire  the  little  man  who, 
in  the  face  of  scorn,  neglect,  8tar\'ation  even,  clung  to 
his  ideals  and  refused  to  prostitute  his  art.  But  this 
knowledge  did  not  tend  to  restore  my  self-esteem,  and 
it  wft?  in  a  mood  of  singular  sclf-crititism  I  entered  my 
room. 


THE  SHEEP  AND  THE  GOATS     17 

As  I  switched  on  the  light  the  first  thing  I  saw  was 
my  reflection  in  a  large  mirror.  Long  and  grimly  I 
gazed,  hands  in  pockets,  legs  widespread,  head  droop- 
ing. I  have  often  thought  of  that  moment.  It 
seemed  as  '  th''  reflection  I  saw  was  otiier  than  myself, 
was,  indeed,  almost  a  stranger  to  me. 

"  Ha ! "  I  cried,  grimacing  at  the  man  in  the  mirror ; 
"you're  getting  found  out,  are  you?  Tell  me,  now, 
beneath  your  wrappings  of  selfishness  and  sham  is  there 
anything  honest  and  essential?  Is  there  a  real  You, 
such  as  might  stand  naked  in  the  wind-swept  spaces  of 
eternity?  Or  are  you,  down  to  your  very  soul's  depths 
a  player  of  parts?  " 

Then  my  mood  changed,  and  I  savagely  paced  the 
room. 

"Oh,  the  fools!  The  hypocrites!  Can't  they  see 
that  I  am  cleverer  than  they?  Can't  they  see  that  I 
could  write  their  futile  sonnets,  their  fatuous  odes? 
But  if  I  did,  wouldn't  I  starve?  Am  I  to  be  blamed 
if  I  refuse?  It's  all  right  to  starve  if  one's  doing  im- 
mortal work ;  but  not  six  men  in  the  world  to-day  are 
doing  that.  We're  ephcnera.  Our  stufl^  ser>'es  the 
moment.     Then  take  the  cash,  and  let  the  credit  go." 

I  :ook  off"  my  boots,  and  threw  them  viciously  into  a 
corner. 

"  How  Quince  upset  me  to-night !  So  I  made  a 
chance  hit  with  my  first  book?  Well,  it's  true  the  pub- 
lic were  up  on  their  toes  for  it.  But  then  I  would  have 
succeeded  anyvay.  As  to  catering  to  the  mass  —  I 
admit  it.  I'm  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea.  The 
publishers  keep  rushing  me  for  the  sort  of  thing  that 
will  sell,  and  the  million  Porkinsons  keep  clamouring 
for  the  sort  of  thing  they  can  read  without  having  to 


A 


18 


THE  PRETENDER 


think.  For  the  sake  of  liis  theoretical  wife  and  six 
children,  what  can  a  poor  devil  do  but  comniercialiso  his 
ideals?" 

Here  I  paused  thoughtfully,  with  one  arm  out  of 
my  coat. 

"After  all,  is  a  book  of  fiction  not  entertainment 
just  as  much  as  a  play?  There's  your  audience,  the 
public.  You've  got  to  try  and  please  them,  to  be  en- 
tertaining from  cover  to  cover.  Better  be  immoral 
than  be  dull.  And  when  it  comes  to  audiences,  give 
me  a  big  one  of  just  plain  '  folks,'  to  a  small  one  of 
highbrows." 

With  knitted  brows  and  lips  pursed  doubtfully,  I 
proceeded  to  wind  up  my  watch. 

*'  Anyway,  I  haven't  written  for  money ;  I've  written 
for  popularity.  It's  nice  to  think  you  can  get  on  . 
train  and  find  some  one  reading  your  books  —  even  i 
it's  only  the  nigger  porter.  True,  my  popularity  has 
meant  about  twenty-five  thousand  a  year  to  me;  but 
it's  not  my  fault  if  my  publishers  insist  on  paying  me 
such  big  royalties.  And  I've  not  spent  the  money. 
I've  gone  on  living  on  my  private  income.  Then  the 
writing  itself  has  been  such  a  distraction.  Lord !  how 
I  have  enjoyed  it!  Granted  that  my  notion  of  Hades 
would  be  to  be  condenmed  to  read  my  own  books,  yet, 
such  as  they  are,  I've  done  my  best  with  them.  I've 
lived  them  as  I  wrote.  I've  laughed  with  joy  at  their 
humour.  I've  shed  real  tears  (with  just  as  much  joy) 
at  their  pathos." 

I  gave  a  wrench  at  my  collar,  expressive  of  savage 
perplexity;  on  which  the  stud  shot  out,  and  cheerfully 
proceeded  to  roll  under  the  wardrobe. 

"Perhaps  I've  done  things  I  shouldn't?     I've  made 


THE  SHEEP  AND  THE  GOATS     19 

coincidence  work  overtime;  I've  grafted  on  love  scenes 
sc  that  the  artist  could  get  in  one  or  two  *  clinch  pic- 
tures.' On  my  last  pajje  you'll  find  the  heroine  clutched 
to  the  hero's  waistcoat;  but  —  they  all  do  it.  One's 
got  to,  or  get  out  of  the  game." 

Here  I  disappeared  for  a  moment;  and  when  I  re- 
entered, clad  in  pale  blue  pyjamas,  I  was  calm  and 
cheerful  again. 

"  So  old  Quince  said  I'd  succeeded  by  a  fluke.  Well, 
I'd  just  like  to  bet  my  year's  income  against  his  that  I 
could  make  a  fresh  start  and  do  the  same  thing  all  over 
again.  By  Jove!  What  an  idea!  Why  not?  Go 
away  to  London,  :ut  adrift  from  friends  and  funds, 
fight  my  way  up  the  ladder  from  the  very  bottom. 
After  all,  I've  had  the  devil's  own  luck,  everything  in 
my  favour.  It's  hardly  been  a  fair  test.  Perhaps  I 
really  am  a  four-fiusher.  Even  now  I  begin  to  doubt 
myself.     It  seems  like  a  challenge." 

Switching  off  the  light  I  jumped  into  bed. 

"  Life's  too  appallingly  prosy.  Here  for  seven  years 
I've  been  imagining  romance;  it's  time  I  tried  to  live 
it  a  little.  Yes,  I'll  go  to-morrow.  .  .  .  London  .  .  . 
garret  .  .  .  poverty  .  .  .  struggle  .  .  .  triumph  .  .  ." 

And  at  this  point  any  one  caring  to  listen  at  my  door 
might  have  heard  issuing  from  those  soft  blankets  a 
sound  resembling  the  intermittent  harshness  cf  a  buzz- 
saw  going  through  cordwood. 


CHAPTER  III 
GRILLED  KIDNEY  AND  BACON 

I  WAS  awakened  at  eight  o'clock  by  the  alarm  in  my 
watch,  and  lay  a  few  minutes  debating  whether  or  not 
I  should  rise.  I  have  always  rebelled  against  the  con- 
vention that  makes  us  go  to  bed  at  night  and  get  up  in 
the  morning.  How  much  less  primitive  to  go  to  bed  in 
the  morning  and  get  up  at  night !  But  in  cither  case 
we  should  abhor  crude  and  violent  awakenings.  We 
should  awake  rhythmically,  on  pulsing  ripples  of  con- 
sciousness. Personally,  I  should  like  to  be  awakened 
by  gentle  music,  viols  and  harps  playing  soft  strains 
of  half-forgotten  melodies.  I  should  like  to  be  roused 
by  the  breath  of  violets,  to  open  my  eyes  to  a  vista  of 
still  lake  on  which  float  swans  whiter  than  ivory. 

What  I  did  open  my  eyes  to  was  a  vista  of  shivery 
sunshine,  steely  blue  sky,  and  snow  on  the  roofs  of  the 
neighbouring  sky-scrapers.  I  was  indeed  comfortable. 
Outside  the  heat-zone  of  my  body  the  sheets  were  of 
a  delectable  coolness,  and  from  head  to  heel  I  felt  as  if 
I  were  dissolving  in  some  exquisite  oil  of  ease. 

Lying  there  enjoying  that  ineffable  tranquillity,  I 
subjected  myself  to  my  morning  diagnosis.  My  soul 
is,  I  consider,  a  dark  continent  which  it  is  my  life's 
business  to  explore.  This  morning,  then,  in  my  ca- 
pacity of  explorer,  I  started  even  as  Crusoe  nmst  have 
done  when  he  saw  the  naked  footprint  in  the  sand. 
Extraordinary    phenomenon!     I    had    actually    awak- 

20 


GRILLED  KIDNEY  AND  BACON 


21 


cned  of  the  same  mind  as  that  in  which  I  fell  asleep. 

Propping  myself  up  I  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  Well,  young  fellow,"  I  greeted  my  face  in  the  mir- 
ror, "  so  we're  still  doubtful  of  ourself  ?  Want  to  make 
fresh  start,  go  to  London  and  starve  in  garret  as  per 
romantic  formula?  What  foolishness!  But  let's  be 
thankful  for  folly.  Some  day  we'll  be  wise,  and  life 
will  seem  so  worn  and  stale  and  grey.  So  here's  for 
London." 

With  that  I  sprang  up  and  disappeared  into  the 
bath-room  from  which  you  might  have  heard  a  series 
of  grunts  and  groans  as  of  some  one  violently  dumb- 
belling; then  a  scries  of  snorts  and  splutters  as  of  some 
one  splashing  in  icy  water;  then  the  hissing  noise  one 
usually  associates  with  the  rubbing  down  of  horses. 
After  all  of  which,  in  a  pink  glow  and  a  Turkish  bath- 
robe, appeared  a  radiant  young  man. 

Taking  down  the  receiver  of  my  telephone  I  listened 
for  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  it's  me.  Miss  Devereux.  Give  me  the  dining- 
room,  please.  .  .  .  Dining-room?  .  .  .  Yes,  it's  Mr. 
Madden  speaking.  I  want  to  order  breakfast.  .  .  . 
No,  not  grape-fruit,  I  said  breakfast  —  Grilled  kidney 
and  bacon,  toast  and  Ceylon  tea.     That's  all,  thank 


you 


»» 


In  parenthesis  I  may  say  I  do  my  best  work  on  kid- 
ney and  bacon.  There  is,  I  find,  a  remarkable  affinity 
between  what  I  eat  and  what  I  write.  Before  tackling 
a  scene  of  blood  I  indulge  in  a  slab  of  beef-steak,  extra 
rare;  for  tender  sentiment  I  find  there  is  nothing  like 
a  previous  debauch  on  angel  cake  and  orange  pekoe; 
while  if  I  have  to  kill  any  one  I  usually  prime  myself 
with  coffee  and  caviare   sandwiches.     But   as   far   as 


ss 


THE  PRETENDER 


ordinary  narrative  is  concerned  I  find  kidney  and  bacon 
an  excellent  stimulus. 

"How  extremely  agreeable  this  life  is,"  I  reflected 
OS  I  resumed  dressing.  "No  care,  no  responsibility, 
neither  jolt  nor  jar  in  the  machinery.  It's  almost  too 
pleasant  to  be  natural.  Now,  if  I  had  a  house,  serv- 
ants, a  wife,  the  trouble  would  just  be  beginning  at  this 
time.  As  it  is  everything  conspires  to  save  me  from 
friction.  But  it'll  soon  be  all  over.  I  never  quite 
realised  that.  My  last  day  of  gilded  ease.  To-day 
a  young  man  of  fashion  in  a  Now  York  club,  to-morrow 
a  skulking  tramp  in  the  steerage  of  an  ocean  liner. 
Yes,  I'll  go  in  the  steerage." 

Perhaps  it  was  to  heighten  the  contrast  that  I  dressed 
with  unusual  care.  From  a  score  of  lounging  suits 
I  selected  a  soft  one  of  slatey  grey;  shirt,  tie  and  socks 
to  match;  cuff-links  of  antique  silver,  and  a  scarf-pin 
of  a  pearl  clutch'?d  in  a  silver  claw;  a  hat  of  grey 
velour,  and  shoes  with  grey  cloth  uppers.  Thus  pano- 
plied I  sallied  forth,  a  very  symphony  in  grey. 

At  this  early  hour  the  dining-room  was  empty,  and 
three  girls  flew  to  wait  on  me.  p^or  the  first  time  it 
struck  me  as  being  odd.  Surely,  I  thought,  if  things 
were  as  they  should  be,  woman  would  not  be  waiting 
on  man.  Here  am  I,  a  strong,  healthy  brute  of  a  male, 
lolling  back  like  a  lord,  while  these  frail  females  fly 
like  slaves  to  fulfil  my  desires.  Yet  I  work  three  hours 
a  day,  they  ten.  I  am  rich,  they  painfully  poor. 
There's  something  all  wrong  with  the  world ;  but  we're 
so  used  to  looking  at  wrong  we've  come  to  think  it 
right. 

A  strange  spirit  of  dissatisfaction  was  stirring  in  me, 
of  desire  to  see  life  from  the  other  side.     As  I  took  my 


GRILLED  KIDNEY  AND  BACON  23 

breakfast  I  studied  the  girls,  trying  to  imagine  what 
they  thought,  how  they  lived.  Although  there  were 
no  other  members  in  the  dining-room  at  that  moment, 
each  waitress  was  obliged  to  remain  at  her  post.  How 
deadly  monotonous,  standing  there  at  attention !  How 
tired  they  must  be  by  the  end  of  the  day!  Then  I 
noticed  that  one  of  them,  under  cover  of  her  apron, 
was  taking  surreptitious  peeps  at  a  yellow-covered  book. 
At  that  moment  the  lynx-eyed  lady  superintendent  en- 
tered, caught  her  in  the  act,  and  proceeded  to  rate  her 
soundly.  I  hate  scenes  of  any  kind,  and  this  particu- 
larly pained  me,  for  I  saw  that  the  all-too-tempting 
vohmie  was  a  cheap  edition  of  The  Haunted  Taxi- 
cab. 

Then  that  moving  picture  imagination  of  mine  began 
to  flicker.  The  girl  had  gone  from  the  room  with  tears 
in  her  eyes.  Surely,  thought  I,  she  has  been  dismissed. 
A  blur  came  between  me  and  my  plate  and  the  film  un- 
reeled. .  .  . 

Ah !  I  see  her  trying  to  get  other  employment,  failing 
again  and  again,  sinking  deeper  into  the  mire  of  misery 
and  despair.  Then  at  last  the  time  comes  when  the 
brave,  proud  heart  is  broken;  the  proud,  sweet  eyes 
flinch  at  another  day  of  bitterness  and  failure.  They 
recognise,  they  accent  the  end. 

It  is  a  freezing  night  of  mid-winter,  and  I  am  walk- 
ing down  Broadway.  Suddenly  I  am  accosted  by  a 
girl  with  a  hard,  painted  face,  a  girl  who  smiles  the 
forced  smile  of  fallen  womanhood. 

"Silvia!"  I  gasp. 

She  shrinks  from  me.  "  You !  "  she  cries.  *'  The 
author  of  my  ruin;  you,  whose  book  :  was  dismissed 
for  reading,  unable  to  resist  peering  into  the  pages 


84 


THE  PRETENDER 


invested     with     such     fatally     fascinating 


you     had 
charm.  .  . 

As  the  scene  came  up  before  me  tears  filled  my  eyes, 
and  fearful  that  they  might  drop  on  my  kidney  and 
bacon  I  averted  my  head.  At  the  same  moment  the 
waitress  came  back  with  a  saucy  giggle  and  resumed 
her  post.  I  was  somewhat  dashed,  nevertheless  I  de- 
cided it  would  do  for  a  short  story,  and  taking  out  my 
idea  book  I  noted  it  down. 

Now,"  I  said,  "  let's  see  the  morning  paper.  .  .  . 
How  lucky!  The  Garguantuan  sails  to-morrow.  I'll 
just  catch  her.     Splendid  !  " 

That  histrionic  temperament  of  mine  began  to  thrill. 
Had  not  my  whole  life  been  dominated  by  my  dramatic 
conception  of  myself?  Student,  actor,  cowboy,  I  had 
played  half  a  dozen  parts,  and  into  each  I  had  put  my 
whole  heart.  Here,  then,  was  a  new  one:  let  me  re- 
alise it  quickly.  So  taken  was  I  with  the  idea  that  I, 
who  had  never  in  my  life  known  what  it  was  to  want 
a  hundred  dollars,  retired  to  the  reading-room,  and, 
inspired  by  the  kidney  and  bacon,  took  out  a  little  gold 
pencil,  and  with  it  dinted  in  my  idea  book  the  following 
sonnet : 

TO  LITEHATIRE 

"  I,  a  poor,  passion-goaded  garreteer, 
A  pensive  enervate  of  l»ook  and  pen, 
Who,  in  the  bannered  triumph-march  of  men 
Lag  like  a  sorry  starveling  in  the  rear  — 
Shall  I  not  curse  thee,  mistress  mine?     I  peer 
I'p  from  life's  saturnalia,  and  then 
Shrink  hack  a-shudder  to  my  garret  den, 
Seeing  no  prospect  of  a  glass  of  beer. 


GRILLED  KIDNEY  AND  BACON  «5 

"What  hnre  I  suffered.  Siren,  for  thy  sake! 
What  scorn  endured,  what  happiness  foregone! 
What  weariness  and  woe !    What  cruel  ache 
Of  failure  'mid  a  thousand  vigils  wan! 
Yet  do  I  shrine  thee  as  each  day  I  wake. 
Wishing  I  had  another  shirt  to  pawn." 

I  smoked  two  large  cigars  over  my  sonnet  before  I 
finally  got  it  straight.  This  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
I  had  a  hundred  and  one  other  things  to  do.  If  the 
house  had  been  burning  I  believe  the  firemen  would  have 
dragged  me  out  muttering  and  puzzling  over  my  son- 
net. My  rhymes  bucked  on  me;  and,  though  I  had 
rounded  up  a  likely  bunch  of  words,  I  just  couldn't  get 
them  into  the  corral.  Finally,  with  more  of  perspira- 
tion than  inspiration,  the  thing  was  done. 

"Hullo,  Madden!"  said  some  one  as  I  wrote  the 
last  line,  and  looking  up  I  saw  young  Hadslev,  a  breezy 
cotilhon  leader,  who  had  recently  been  admitted  into 
his  father's  law  firm. 

"  Rotien  nuisance,  this  early  snow,"  went  on  Hads- 
ley.  "  Mucks  things  up  so.  'Fraid  it'll  spoil  the  game 
on  Saturday." 

"  I  hope  not,"  I  replied  fervently.  The  game  was 
the  Yale-Princeton  football  match,  and  I  was  terribly 
eager  to  see  my  old  college  win. 

"  By  the  way,"  suggested  Hadslev,  "  if  you  care  to 
go  I'll  run  you  down  on  my  car." 

"  Of  course,  I'd  like  it,"  I  exclaimed  enthusiastically. 
"  I'll  be  simply  delighted."  Then  like  a  flash  I  remein- 
bered. 

"Oh,  no!  After  all,  I'm  sorry,  I  can't.  I  expect 
to  be  in  mid-ocean  by  Saturday." 


26 


THE  PRETENDER 


"Ah,  indeed!  That  sounds  interesting.  Going  to 
Europe!     Wish  I  was.     When  do  you  start?" 

"  To-morrow  on  the  Garguantuan." 

"You  don't  say!  Why,  the  Chumley  Graces  are 
going  on  her.  Of  course,  you  remember  the  three  girls 
—  awfully  jolly,  play  golf  divinely,  used  to  be  called 
the  Three  Graces?  They're  so  peeved  they're  missing 
the  game,  but  the  old  man  won't  stay  for  it.  They're 
taking  their  car  and  going  to  tour  Europe.  How  nice 
for  you!  You'll  have  no  end  of  a  good  time  going 
over." 

Malediction!  Could  I  never  out-pace  prosperity? 
Could  I  never  throw  off  the  yoke  of  fortune? 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  not  settled  yet,"  I  went  on  quickly. 
"  I  may  not  be  able  to  make  it  for  to-morrow.  I  tnav 
have  to  take  a  later  boat.  So  don't  say  anything 
about  it,  there's  a  good  fellow." 

"  Oh,  all  right.  The  surprise  will  be  all  the  jollier 
wlien  they  see  you.  Well,  good-bye,  old  man,  and  good 
luck.  You'll  get  the  news  of  the  game  by  wireless. 
Gee!  I  wish  I  was  in  your  shoes." 

Hadsley  was  off,  leaving  me  gnawing  at  an  imaginary 
moustache.  "  The  Chumley  Graces  going  on  the  Gar- 
guantuan.  That  means  I  can  never  go  steei..gc,  and 
I  have  set  my  heart  on  going  steerage.  Let's  see  the 
paper  again.  Hurrah!  There's  an  Italian  steamer 
sailing  to-morrow  morning.     Well,  that'll  do." 

I  was  now  in  a  whirlwind  of  energy,  packing  and 
making  final  arrangements.  At  the  steamship  office, 
when  I  asked  for  a  ticket,  the  clerk  beamed  on  me. 

"  Yes,  sir,  we  can  give  you  a  nice  suite  on  the  main 
deck,  the  best  we  have  on  the  boat.  Lucky  it's  not 
taken." 


GHILLED  KIDNEY  AND  BACON 


27 


My  moral  courage  almost  failed  me.  "  No,  no !  "  I 
said  hastily.  "It's  not  for  me.  It's  for  one  of  my 
servants  whose  way  I'm  paying  back  to  Italy.  Give 
me  a  steerage  ticket." 

"Coward!  Coward!"  hissed  Conscience  in  my  ear. 
"You're  making  a  bad  beginning." 

Just  before  lunch  I  remembered  my  business  with 
Quince,  and,  jumping  into  a  taxi,  whisked  down  lo  the 
Hank.  The  manager  received  me  effusively.  The  note 
was  prepared  —  only  wanted  a  satisfactory  endorser. 
I  scratched  my  name  on  the  back  of  it,  then,  speaking 
into  the  telephone  on  the  manager's  desk,  I  got  Quince 
on  the  line. 

"  Hullo !  This  is  Madden  speaking.  I  say.  Quince, 
I  have  fixed  up  that  note  for  you." 

(A  confused  murmur  that  might  be  construed  as 
thanks.  ) 

"  And  about  that  article,  never  mind.  I  find  I  won't 
need  it." 

(Another  confused  murmur  that  might  be  construed 
as  relief.) 

"  No,  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  you're  right.  The 
book's  not  the  right  stuff.  If  you  praised  it  you'd 
probably  have  a  hard  time  getting  t4uare  with  your 
conscience.     So  we'll  let  it  go  at  that.     Good-bye." 

Then  I  slammed  the  receiver  on  the  hook,  feeling  that 
I  had  gained  more  than  I  had  lost. 

By  three  o'clock  everything  had  been  done  that  could 
be  done.  I  was  on  the  point  of  giving  a  sigh  of  relief, 
when  all  at  once  I  remembered  two  farewell  calls  I 
really  ought  to  make. 

"  I'd  almost  forgotten  them,"  I  said.  "  I  must  say 
good-bye  to  Mrs.  Fitz  and  Miss  Tevandale." 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN'  UN'IXTEXTIOXAL  PHILANDERER 

To  believe  a  woman  who  tells  you  her  age  is  twenty- 
nine  is  to  show  a  naive  confidence  in  her  veracit}-. 
Twenty-nine  is  an  almost  impossible  age.  \o  woman 
is  twenty-nine  for  more  than  one  year,  yet  by  a  process 
of  elasticity  it  is  often  made  to  extend  over  half  a  dozen. 
True,  the  following  years  are  insolent,  unworthy  of 
acknowledgment,  best  punished  by  being  haughtily  ig- 
nored. For  to  rest  on  twenty-nine  as  long  as  she  dare 
is  every  woman's  right. 

Mrs.  Fitzbarrington  had  been  twenty-nine  for  four 
or  five  years,  but  if  she  had  said  thirty-nine,  no  one 
would  have  expressed  particular  surprise.  However, 
there  were  reasons.  Captain  Fitzbarrington,  who  was 
in  receipt  of  a  monthly  allowance,  had  been  engaged  for 
some  years  in  a  book  entitled  Th^  Beers  of  America, 
the  experimental  investigations  for  which  absorbed  the 
greater  part  of  his  income.  Mrs.  Fitz,  then,  had  a 
hard  time  of  it,  and  it  was  wonderful  how  she  managed 
to  dress  so  well  and  keep  on  smiling. 

She  received  me  in  the  rather  faded  drawing-room 
of  the  house  in  Harlem.  She  herself  was  rather  faded, 
with  pale,  sentimental  eyes,  and  a  complex  complexion. 
How  pathetic  is  the  woman  of  thirty,  who,  feeling  youth 
with  all  that  it  means  slipping  away  from  her,  makes 
a  last  frantic  fight  to  retain  it!  Mrs.  Fitz,  on  this  oc- 
casion, was  just  a  little  more  faded,  a  little  more  rc- 

98 


AN  UNINTENTIONAL  PHILANDERER     29 


stored,  a  little  more  thirty-ninish  than  usual;  and  she 
welcomed  me  with  a  little  more  than  her  usual  warmth. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  giving  me  both 
hands.     "  You  know,  I  was  just  thinking  of  you." 

This  clearly  called  for  a  gallant  reply,  so  I  answered, 
"  Ah !  that  must  be  telepathy,  for  you  know  I'm  always 
thinking  of  you." 

Yet  I  could  have  bitten  my  tongue  as  soon  as  I  heard 
the  last  phrase  slip  from  my  mouth.  There  was  a  sud- 
den catch  in  her  breath;  a  soft  light  beaconed  in  her 
eyes.  Confound  the  thing !  why  do  the  women  we  don't 
want  to  always  take  us  seriously,  and  those  we  are  seri- 
ous with  always  persist  in  regarding  us  as  a  joke.''  I 
hastened  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Ah,  how  are  the  kiddies?  " 

The  kiddies  were  Ronnie  and  Lonnie,  two  twin  boys, 
v  ry  sticky  and  strenuous,  whom  in  my  heart  I  de- 
tested. 

"  The  darlings !  They're  always  so  well.  Heaven 
knows  what  I  should  do  without  them." 

«  And  he?  " 

"Oh,  he!  I  haven't  seen  him  for  three  days,  not 
since  the  remittance  arrived,  and  then  you  can  guess 
the  state  he  was  in." 

"My  poor  friend!  I'm  so  sorry."  (How  I  hated 
my  voice  for  vibrating  as  I  said  this,  but  for  the  life  of 
me  I  could  not  help  it.  At  such  a  moment  tricks  I  had 
learnt  in  my  short  stage  career  came  to  me  almost  un- 
consciously.) 

"  Oh,  don't  pity  me,"  she  said ;  "  you  know  a 
woman  hates  any  one  who  pities  her." 

"Then  I  mustn't  make  you  hate  me."  (Again  that 
infernal  fighting-with-repressed  feeling  note.)      "Well, 


30 


THE  PRETENDER 


jou  know  you  have  my  deepest  sympathy,"  I  added 
hastily. 

Slio  certainly  had.  My  Irish  heart  melts  at  a  tale 
of  woe,  or  is  roused  to  fiery  wrath  at  the  recital  of  a 
wrong.  I  feel  far  more  keenly  than  the  person  con- 
cerned. Yet,  alas!  the  moment  after  I  am  ready  to 
laugh  heartily  with  the  next  one. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  know  it,"  she  spoke  quickly.  « It 
almost  makes  it  worth  while  to  suffer  for  that.  You 
know  how  much  it  means  to  me,  how  much  it  helps, 
don't  you  ?  " 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  She  was  waiting  for 
me  to  take  my  cue,  and  I  was  staring  at  a  mental  sign- 
board, "  Dangerous  Ground."  I  tried  to  sav,  "  Well, 
I'm  glad,"  in  a  friendly  way,  but,  to  my  infinite  dis- 
gust, my  voice  broke.  She  caught  the  note,  as  of  sup- 
pressed emotion.  With  wide  eyes  she  looked  at  me  as 
if  she  would  read  my  soul;  her  flat  bosom  heaved, 
then  suddenly  she  leaned  forward  and  her  voice  was 
tense. 

"  Horace,"  she  breathed,  "  do  you  love  me?  " 
Now,  when  a  female  asks  an  unprotected  male  if  he 
loves  her  there  can  be  only  two  answers :  Yes  or  No. 
If  No,  a  scene  follows  in  which  he  feels  like  a  brute.' 
If  Yes,  he  saves  her  feelings  and  gives  Time  a  chancJ 
to  straighten  things  out.  The  situation  is  embarrass- 
ing and  calls  for  delicate  handling.  I  am  sadly  lacking 
in  moral  courage,  and  kindness  of  heart  has  always 
been  my  weakness.  To  say  "  No  '»  would  be  to  deal  a 
deathblow  to  this  woman's  hope,  to  leave  her  crushed 
and  broken,  to  drive  her  to  despair,  perhaps  even  to 
suicide.  Besides  —  it  would  be  awfully  impolite. 
"  Perhaps  I'd  better  humour  her,"  I  thought.     So  I 


AX  UNINTENTIONAL  PHILANDERER     31 

too  leaned   forward,  and  in   the  same  husky  voice  I 
answered,  "  Stella,  how  can  you  ask?  " 

"  Cor. ."  she  corrected  gently.  J  was  rather  taken 
almck.  iet  I  am  not  the  first  man  who  has  called  the 
lady  of  the  moment  by  the  name  of  her  predecessor.  It 
IS  one  of  life's  embarrassing  situations.  However,  I 
went  on: 

'*  Cora,  how  could  you  guess  ?  " 

"How  does  a  woman  know  these  things?"  she  an- 
swered passionately.  « Could  I  not  read  it  in  your 
eyes  alone?  " 


Ah!  my  eyes  —  yes,  my  eyes 


Inwardly  I 


added,  "Damn  my  eyes!"  Then,  after  a  pause  in 
which  I  was  conscious  of  her  wide,  bright,  expectant 
regard  I  repeated  lamely,  "  Ye-es,  my  eyes." 

But  she  was  evidently  waiting  for  liie  to  rise  to  the 
occasion.     She  leaned  still  further  forward;  then  sud 
dcnly  she  laid  her  hands  on  mine. 

"  You  mustn't  kiss  me,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  mustn't,"  I  agreed  hastily.  I  hadn't  the 
slightest  intention  of  doing  it. 

"  No,  no,  that  would  ruin  us.  We  must  control  our- 
selves. If  Charley  were  to  discover  our  secret  he  would 
kill  me.  Oh.  I've  known  for  long,  so  long  that  you 
loved  me;  but  you  were  too  fine,  too  honourable  to  show 
It.  Now,  what  are  we  going  to  do?  The  situation  is 
full  of  danger." 

"  Do !  "  I  said  glum'y,  «  I  don't  know.  It's  beastly 
awkward."  Then  with  an  effort  I  cheered  up.  I  tried 
to  look  at  her  with  sad,  stern  eyes.  I  let  my  voice  go 
down  an  octave. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  to  do,  Nora  —  I  mean,  Cora, 
only  one  thing :    I  —  must  —  go  --  away." 


32 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  No,  no,  not  that,"  she  cried. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  must ;  I  must  put  the  world  between  us. 
We  must  never  meet  again." 

I  could  feel  fresh  courage  in  my  heart,  also  ..e  steer- 
age ticket  in  rny  pocket.  In  a  near-by  mirror  I  had  a 
glimpse  of  my  face,  and  was  pleased  to  see  how  it  was 
stern  and  set.  I  was  pleased  to  see  also  that  shs:  was 
looking  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  hero. 

"Brave!  Noble!"  she  whispered.  "I  knew  it. 
Oh,  I  understand  so  well!  It's  for  me  you're  doing 
this.     How  proud  I  am  of  you !  " 

Then,  with  my  returning  sense  of  safety,  the  dramatic 
instinct  begun  to  seethe  in  me.  Apparently  I  had  got 
out  of  the  difficulty  easily  enough.  Now  to  end  things 
gracefully. 

"Oh,  what  an  irony  life  is!"  I  breathed.  «*  How 
happy  we  could  have  been,  just  we  two  in  some  garden 
of  roses.  Oh,  if  we  were  only  free,  free  to  fly  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  together,  to  the  heart  of  the  desert, 
to  the  shadow  of  the  pole  —  only  together !  Why  did 
we  meet  like  this,  too  late,  too  late?  " 

"Is  it  too  late?"  she  panted,  catching  fire  at  my 
words.  "Why  should  we  let  life  cheat  us  of  our  joy? 
Take  me  away,  darling,  to  some  far,  far  land  where  no 
one  will  know  us,  where  we  can  live,  love,  di*eam.  What 
does  it  matter?  There  will  be  a  ten  days'  scandal;  he 
will  get  a  divorce ;  all  will  soon  be  forgotten.  Oh,  take 
me  away,  sweetheart ;  take  me  away !  " 

By  this  time  I  was  quite  under  the  spell  of  my  his- 
trionic imagination.  Here  was  a  dramatic  situation, 
and,  though  the  heavens  fall,  I  must  work  it  out  artis- 
tically. I  threw  caution  to  the  winds  and  my  arms 
around  the  lady. 


AX  UNINTENTIONAL  PHILANDERER     33 


: 


"  Yes,"  I  cried.  "  Come  with  me.  Come  now,  let  us 
fly  together.  I  want  you;  I  need  you;  I  cannot  live 
without  you.  Make  me  the  happiest  man  in  the  world. 
Let  me  live  for  you,  just  to  adore  you,  to  make  your 
life  one  long,  sweet  dream  of  bliss." 

These  were  phrases  from  one  of  my  novels,  and  they 
slipped  out  almost  unconsciously.  Again  in  that  con- 
venient mirror  I  saw  myself  with  parted  lips  and  eyes 
agleam.  "  How  well  I'm  doing  this ! "  the  artist  in 
me  applauded.  "  Ass !  Ass ! "  hissed  the  critical 
overself.  My  attitude  was  a  picture  of  passionate  sup- 
plication, yet  my  whole  heart  was  a  prayer  to  the 
guardian  that  watches  over  fools. 

"  Oh,  don't  tempt  me,"  she  cried ;  "  it's  terrible.  Yes, 
yes,  I'll  go  now.  Let's  lose  no  time  in  case  I 
weaken  ...  at  once.  .  .  .  I'll  just  get  my  hat  and 
cloak.     Wait  a  moment  — " 

She  was  gone.  Horror  of  horrors!  What  had  I 
done?  Here  I  was  eloping  with  a  woman  for  whom 
I  did  not  care  two  pins.  What  mad  folly  had  got  into 
me?  As  I  stared  blankly  at  the  door  through  which 
she  had  passed  it  seemed  to  be  suddenly  invested  with 
all  the  properties  of  tragedy.  Soon  she  would  emerge 
from  it  clad  for  the  flight,  and  —  I  must  accompany 
her.  Could  I  not  escape?  The  window?  But  no,  it 
was  six  stories  high.  By  heaven,  I  must  go  through 
with  it !  Let  my  hfe  be  ruined,  I  must  play  the  game. 
As  I  sat  there,  waiting  for  her  ♦o  reappear,  never  in 
the  history  of  eloping  humanity  was  there  man  more 
miserable. 

Then  at  last  she  came  —  Oh,  merciful  gods,  without 
her  hat ! 

"  How  can  I  tell  you,"  she  moaned.     "  My  courage 


34 


THE  PRETENDER 


failed  me.  I  couldn't  bear  to  leave  my  children  There 
were  their  little  photographs  staring  at  me  so  reproach- 
fully from  the  dressing-table.  For  their  sakes  I  must 
stay  and  bear  with  him.     After  all,  he  is  their  father." 

"  Is  he."  I  mean,  of  course  he  is."  How  mv  brain 
was  reehng  with  joy !  At  that  moment  I  loved  the  ter- 
rible twins  with  a  great  and  lasting  love. 

"Forgive  you,  Flora,"  I  said  nobly.  "There  is 
nothing  to  forgive.  I  can  only  love  >ou  the  more. 
\  ou  are  right.  Never  must  they  think  oi  their  mother 
with  the  blush  of  shame.  No,  for  their  dear  sakes  we 
must  each  do  our  duty,  though  our  hearts  mnv  break. 
I  will  go  away,  never  to  return.  Vet,  my  de'arest,  1 
will  always  think  of  you  as  the  noblest  woman  in  the 
world." 

"  And  I  you  too,  dearest.  You  shall  be  my  hero, 
and  I  shall  adore  you  to  the  last  day  of  my  life  Now 
go,  go  quickly  lest  I  weaken;  and  don't"  (here  she 
leaned  closely  to  me),  "don't  kiss  me  — not  even 
once.  .  .  ." 

"  No  I  won't.  It's  hard,  hard  -  but  I  won't.  And 
listen,  darling  -  if  ever  anything  should  happen  to  him. 
If  at  any  time  we  should  both  find  ourselves  free,  prom- 
ise, promise  me  you'll  write  to  me.  Vll  coine  to  yon 
though  the  xchole  world  lies  between  us.  By  mv  life 
by  my  honour  I  swear  it." 

"I  promise,"  she  said  fervently.  She  looked  as  if 
she  was  going  to  weaken  again,  and  I  thought  I  had 
better  get  away  quickly.  A  phrase  from  one  of  my 
novels  came  into  my  mind:  "Here  the  brave  voice 
broke." 

"  Good-bye."  I  cried.  "  Good-bye  for  ever.  I  shall 
never  blame  you,  darling.     Perhaps  in  another  land 


AN  rMNTENTIOXAL  PHILANDERER     35 

I'll  find  my  happiness  again.  Then  some  day,  when 
we  both  are  bent  and  grey,  and  sentiment  lies  buried 
under  the  frosts  of  time,  we'll  meet  again,  and,  clasping 
liiiiids,  confess  that  all  was  for  the  best.  And  now, 
God  bless  you,  Dora  ...  for  the  last,  last  time,  good- 
bye." 

Here  "the  brave  voice  broke"  beautifully;  then 
slowly  and  with  drooping  head  I  made  my  exit  from  tho 
room.     On  D  in  the  street  I  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  To  be  over-sympathetic  is  to  be  misunderstood," 
I  sighed.  "Well,  I've  given  her  a  precious  memory. 
Poor  Mrs.  Fitz !  " 

And,  come  to  think  of  it,  I  had  never  kissed  her,  not 
even  once. 

***♦«♦♦ 

Fifteen  minutes  later  I  had  reached  Riverside  Drive, 
and  was  being  shown  into  the  luxurious  apartment  of 
Miss  Boadicia  Tevandale. 

She  was  an  orphan  and  an  heiress,  only  child  of 
Tevandale  the  big  corporation  lawyer,  himself  an  au- 
thor, whose  Tevandale  on  Torts  had  almost  as  big  a 
circulation  as  my  Haunted  Taxicab.  Socially  she 
moved  in  a  more  exalted  sphere  than  I,  but  we  had  met 
at  some  of  the  less  exclusive  functions,  and  she  had 
majestically  annexed  me. 

Though  her  dearest  enemy  could  not  have  called  her 
"  fat,"  there  was  just  a  suggestion  of  a  suggestion  that 
at  sometime  in  the  future  she  might  possibly  develop 
what  might  be  described  as  an  adipose  approximation. 
At  present  she  was  merely  "  big." 

I  rather  resent  bigness  in  a  woman.  A  female's  first 
duty  is  to  be  feminine  —  to  be  small,  dainty,  helpless. 
I  genuinely  dislike  holding  a  hand  if  it  is  larger  than 


36 


THK  PRKTENDER 


my  own,  and  I  can  understand  the  feelings  of  Wain- 
wr^ht  who  poisoned  his  sister-in-law  because  her  thick 
ankles  annoyed  him.     However,   Boadicia  had   really 
been  yery  n,ce  to  me.     It  would  have  been  terribly  rude 
on  my  part  to  have  ignored  her  overtures  of  friend- 
Tl  >'°"^;^f  "*'3^  «^  J'«d  been  seen  much  together, 
and  had  drifted  mto  what  the  world  regarded  as  a  senti- 
mental attachment.     With  my  faculty,  then,  for  en- 
enng  mto  such  situations,  I  was  sometimes  convinced 
that  my  feehngs  for  her  were  those  of  real  warmth. 
Indeed,  once  or  twice,  in  moments  of  great  enthusiasm, 
I  almost  suspected  myself  of  being  mildly  in  love  with 
her. 

She  received  me  radiantly,  and  she,  too,  gave  me  both 
hands  On  the  third  finger  of  the  left  one  I  noted  the 
sparkle  of  a  new  diamond. 

"  Hello,  stranger,"  she  said,  gaily.  "Just  in  time 
for  tea.  It  seems  ages  since  I've  seen  you.  Why 
haven  t  you  been  near  me  for  a  wliole  fortnight? »     " 

I  was  going  to  make  the  usual  excuses,  when  sud- 
denly that  devil  of  sentiment  entered  into  me.  So  try- 
mg  to  give  my  face  a  pinched  look,  I  answered  in  a  hol- 
low voice: 

"Can  you  ask  that?" 

She  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  « V^^ly,  Horace, 
what's  the  matter?  " 

!!  ^l  ^°'i  '^°"'^"'  ^'°"  ''°"'*="  •  "  ^  g'-oaned  bitterly. 
What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded,  with  some 
amazement. 

"  What  do  I  mean?  Are  jou  blind?  Have  you  no 
eyes  as  well  as  no  heart?  Can  you  not  see  how  I  have 
loved  you  this  long,  long  while;  loved  you  with  a  pas- 
sion  no  tongue  can  tell?     And  now  — »» 


A\  rXINTEXTIOXAL  PHILANDERER     HI 

I  pointed  dramatically  to  the  new  ring. 

'*  Oh,  that!     Why,  you  don't  mean  to  sav  — " 

"  I  njoan  to  say  that  after  I  read  of  vour  engage- 
ment m  this  morning's  Toum  Tattle  I  went  straight  off 
urn!  took  a  passage  for  Europe.  I  leave  to-morrow. 
Pve  just  come  to  say  good-bye." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry,  so  sorry  you  feel  that  wav  about  it. 
I  never  dreamed  — " 

"  Xo,  I  have  uttered  no  word,  given  no  sign.  How 
could  I,  knowing  the  difference  in  our  social  positions.? 
Break,  break  my  heart,  but  I  must  hold  mv  tongue, 
ho  It  seems  I  have  kept  my  secret  better  even  than  I 
knew.  But  it  does  not  matter  now.  I  have  no  word 
of  reproach.  To-morrow  I  go,  never  to  return.  I  pray 
you  .nay  be  happy,  very  happy.  And  so,  good'- 
oye.  ..." 

"  Wait  a  moment !     Good  gracious !  " 

She  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  my  arm,  but  I  shook  it 
off  quite  roughly,  and  strode  to  the  window.  My  face 
was  stern  and  set;  my  shoulders  heaved  with  emotion. 
I  had  seen  the  leading  man  in  our  Cruel  Chicago  Com- 
pany (m  which  I  doubled  the  parts  of  the  waiter 
and  the  policeman)  use  the  same  gesture  with  great 
effect. 

"Why  did  I  ever  meet  you.?"  I  said  harshly  to  a 
passmg  taxicab. 

And  strange  as  it  may  seem,  at  that  moment  I  had 
really  worked  myself  into  the  spirit  of  the  scene.  I 
actually  felt  a  blighted  being,  the  victim  of  a  woman's 
wiles.     Then  she  was  there  at  my  side,  pale,  agitated. 

"  I  m  so  grieved.  WTiy  didn't  you  speak?  If  I'd 
only  known  you  cared.  But  then,  you  know,  nobody 
takes  you  seriously.     Perhaps,  though,  it's  not  too  late. 


38 


THE  PRETENDER 


If  }'ou  really,  really  care  so  much  I'll  try  to  break  off 
my  iiigagcment  with  Bunny." 

(Runny  was  Mr.  Jarraway  Tope,  an  elderly  Pitts- 
burg manufacturer  of  suspenders  —  Tope's  "  Never- 
tear  Ever-wear  Suspenders.") 

"No,  no,  it's  too  late  now,"  I  interrupted  eagerly. 
"Things  could  never  be  the  same.  Besides,  he  loves 
you.  He's  a  good  old  fellow.  He  will  make  you  happv, 
far  happier  tlian  I  could.  He  is  rich;  I  am  poor,  it 
is  better  so." 

"  Riches  are  not  everything,"  she  pouted  miserably. 

"No,  but  they're  the  best  imitation  of  it  I  know. 
Oh,  you  hothouse  flowers!  You  creatures  of  lace  nnd 
luxury !  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  poor,  to  live 
from  hand  to  mouth.  How  could  you  be  happy  in  a 
cottage  —  I  mean  a  Brooklyn  flat?  No,  no,  Boadicia, 
we  must  not  let  sentiment  blind  us.  Never  will  I  drag 
you  down." 

"  But  there's  no  question  of  poverty.  You  make 
lots  of  money.''  " 

"  A  mere  pittance,"  I  cried  bitterly.  «  It's  my  pub- 
lishers who  make  the  money.  I'm  no  man  of  business. 
On  a  few  beggarly  royalties  how  can  I  hold  up  my  end? 
No,  I  must  put  the  world  between  us.  Oh,  it  will  be  all 
right.  Some  day  when  we  are  both  old  and  grey,  and 
sentitnent  lies  buried  under  the  frost  of  time,  we  will 
perhaps  meet  again,  and,  clasping  hands,  confess  that 
all  was  for  the  best." 

"  Oh,  I  hate  to  let  you  go  away  like  that.  If  you 
have  no  money,  I  have." 

"  As  if  I  could  ever  touch  a  penny  of  yours,"  I  in- 
terrupted her  sternly. 


AN  UNINTENTIONAL  PHILANDERER     39 

"  Hornce,"  she  pleaded,  "  you  cut  me  to  tlie  lieart. 
Don't  go." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Believe  me  it's  best.  Why  prolong  this 
painful  scene?  I'll  pray  for  your  happiness,  for  both 
of  your  happinesses,  yours  and  Bunny's.  Perhaps  my 
lie.irt's  not  so  badly  broken  after  all."  (I  smiled  a 
brave,  twisted  smile.)  "  For  the  last  time,  good-bye, 
good-bye." 

With  that  I  rushed  blindly  from  the  room.  When 
I  reached  the  street,  I  wiped  away  a  few  beads  of 
perspiration. 

"  Oh,  you  everlasting,  sentimental  humbug!  "  I  cried. 
"  One  of  these  days  you'll  get  nicely  nailed  to  the  cross 
of  your  folly. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  SKASICK  SFA'TIMEXTALIST 

If  ever  I  sliould  come  to  write  my  autobio^'rapliy  (as 
I  fondly  hope  in  the  fulness  of  time  my  recognition  as 
the  American  Dumas  will  justify  me  in  doing)  it  will 
fall  easily  into  chapters.  For,  so  far,  my  life  has  con- 
sisted of  distinct  periods,  each  inspired  by  a  dramatic 
conception  of  myself.  Let  me  then  try  to  forecast  its 
probable  divisions. 

Chapter  /.—Boyhood.  Violently  imaginative  period. 
—Devouring  ambition  to  become  pirate  chief.— Organ- 
ised the  "Band  of  Blood."— Antipathy  to  study.— 
Favourite  literature:  Jack  Harkawav. 

Chapter  //.—Youth.  Violently  'athletic  period.— 
Devouring  ambition  to  become  great  first  baseman.— 
Organised  the  Angoras.  Continued  antipathy  to  study. 
— Favourite  literature:     The  sporting  rags. 

Chapter  ///.— Cubhood.  \'iolently  red  blood  period. 
—Devouring  ambition  to  become  champion  broncho 
buster.— Went  to  Wyoming,  and  became  the  most  cow- 
boyish  cowboy  in  seven  counties.— Favourite  literature: 
The  yellow  rags. 

Chapter  /»'.— Undergraduate  days.  Violently  intel- 
lectual period.— Devouring  ambition  to  become  fiterary 
mandarin.— Gave  up  games  and  became  a  bookworm.— 
Commenced  to  write,  but  disdained  anything  less  than 
an  epic— Favourite  literature:    The  French  decadents. 

Chapter    T.— Adolescence.     Violently   histrionic   pe- 

40  '^ 


A  SFASK  K  SFATIMF.NTAI.IST 


41 


ricxl. — Devouring  anihition  to  beconn'  a  s«oonil  Miins- 
fithK— .foinod  tlu-  Cruel  ChUmjo  Conipaiiy  as  general 
utility.— Chief  literature:     The  theatr:    .Irags. 

Chapttr  VI. — Manhood.  At  age  of  twenty-one 
wrote  The  Haunted  Taxicab,  and  scored  iinmedi.ite  suc- 
cess.—Devouring  ambition  to  write  the  Great  American 
Novel. — Published  nine  more  books  in  next  five  years, 
ami  managed  to  hold  my  own. 

There  you  are  —  down  to  the  time  of  which  the  pres- 
ent record  tells.  And  now,  in  accordance  with  the  plot, 
let  me  continue. 

On  a  certain  muggy  morning  of  late  .\oveml)er.  a 
young  man  of  conspicuously  furtive  bearing  might  have 
l)een  seen  climbing  aboard  the  steamer  bound  for  Naples. 
He  wore  the  brim  of  his  /elour  hat  turned  down,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  entirely  wishes  to  avoid  observation. 

Over  one  arm  hung  a  mackintosh,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  other  dangled  an  alligator-skin  suitcase.  An  in- 
ventory of  its  contents  would  have  resulted  as  follows: 
A  silk-lined,  blue  serge  suit ;  three  silk  neglige  shirts ; 
three  suits  silk  pyjamas;  three  suits  silk  underwear; 
three  pairs  silk  socks ;  several  silk  ties,  and  sundry  toilet 
articles. 

If,  in  the  above  list,  an  insistence  on  the  princely 
fabric  is  to  be  remarked,  I  must  confess  that  I  shrink 
from  the  contact  of  baser  material.  It  was  then  with 
some  dismay  that  I  descended  into  the  bowels  of  the 
ship,  and  was  piloted  to  my  berth  by  a  squinting  stew- 
ard in  shirt-sleeves.  I  gazed  with  distaste  at  the  thread- 
bare cotton  blanket  that  was  to  replace  the  cambric 
sheets  of  the  mighty.  Then  I  looked  at  the  oblique- 
eyed  one,  and  observed  that  nonchaLmtly  over  his  arm 


42 


THE  PRETENDER 


was  huii^r  another  blanket  of  more  sympathetic  texture, 
and  tluit  his  pahn  protruded  in  a  mercenary  curve. 
So  into  that  venial  hollow  I  dropped  half  a  dollar,  and 
took  the  extra  blanket.  Then  throwing  my  suitcase  on 
the  berth,  I  went  on  deck. 

Shades  of  Ca-sar!  Garibaldi!  C'arusa!  What  had  I 
"gone  up  against"?  One  and  all  my  fellow  passen- 
gers seemed  to  be  of  the  race  of  garlic  eaters.  Not  a 
stodgy  Saxon  face  among  them.  Verily  I  was  ma- 
rooned in  a  sea  of  dagos.  Here  wc  were,  caged  like 
cattle;  above  us,  a  tier  of  curious  faces,  the  superior 
second  class;  still  higher,  looking  down  with  disdain, 
the  fastidious  firsts.  And  here,  herded  with  these  de- 
generate Latins,  under  these  derisive  eyes,  must  I  re- 
main many  days.  What  a  wretched  prospect!  What 
rotten  luck!  And  all  the  fault  of  these  gad-about 
Chumley  Graces,  confound  them ! 

But  I  did  not  lament  for  long.  If  ever  there  is  an 
opening  for  the  sentimentalist  it  is  on  leaving  for  the 
first  time  his  native  land.  Could  it  be  expected,  then, 
that  I,  a  professional  purveyor  of  sentiment,  would  be 
silent.''  Nay!  as  I  watched  the  Statue  of  Liberty  di- 
minish to  an  interrogation  mark,  I  delivered  myself 
somewhat  as  follows: 

"  Grey  sea,  prey  sky,  and  grey,  so  grey 
The  ragged  roof-line  of  my  home; 
Yet  greyer  far  my  mood  than  they. 
As  liere  nmid  this  spawn  of  Rome 
With  tenderness  undreamt  before 
I  sigh:    'Adieu,  my  native  shore!' 

"To  thee  my  wistful  eyes  I  strain; 
To  thee,  brave  burg,  I  wave  my  hand; 
(lOrtd-hyp,  oh  giddy  Tungsten  I.anc ! 


A  SEASICK  SENTIMFATALIST  43 

(i(X)d-byc,  oh  great  Skyscraper  Land! 
Good-bye,  Fifth  Avenue  so  splendid  .  .  .  . ! ! " 

And  here  my  doggerel  I  ended.  .  .  .  Horrors  on  hor- 
rors! Could  I  believe  my  eyes?  There,  looking  down 
from  the  promenade  deck,  in  long  ulsters  and  jaunty 
velour  hats,  were  the  three  Misses  Chuniley  Grace. 
They  were  laughing  happily,  and  looking  right  at  me. 
Could  anything,  I  wonder,  have  equalled  the  rapidity  of 
my  retreat."  As  rabbit  dives  into  its  burrow,  as  otter 
into  its  pool,  so  dived  I,  down,  down  to  the  dark  hole 
tliey  called  my  cabin,  where  I  collapsed  disgustedly  on 
my  bunk. 

And  there  for  five  days  I  remained. 

It  may  be  assumed  (so  much  are  we  the  creatures  of 
an  artificial  environment)  ♦hat  it  is  only  in  the  more 
acute  phases  of  life  we  realise  our  truer  selves.  As  a 
woman  in  the  dental  chair,  as  a  fat  man  coaxing  a  bed 
down  a  narrow  stairway,  as  both  sexes  in  the  clutches 
of  mal-de-mer,  are  for  the  moment  stripped  of  all  pal- 
tering pretence,  so  in  the  days  that  followed  I  had  many 
illuminating  glimpses  of  my  inner  nature.  Never  was  a 
man  more  rent,  racked,  ravaged  by  the  torments  of  sea- 
sickness. But  lit  me  read  you  an  extract  from  my 
diary : 

"  Eight  hnndred  Italians  on  bonrd,  and  we  are  packed 
like  sardines  in  a  keg.  Our  wedge-shaped  cabin  is  in- 
nocent of  ventilation.  The  bunks  are  three  tiers  high  and 
three  abreast;  so  that,  as  I  have  an  outer  one,  a  bulky 
Dago  ascends  and  descends  me  a  hundred  times  a  day. 
Also  I  am  on  the  lower  row,  and  as  both  the  men  above 
me  are  violently  sick,  my  situation  may  be  imagined.  Tlie 
sourly  stinking  floors  are  swilled  out  every  rooming.     .My 


44 


THE  PRETENDER 


only  comfort  is  that  I  am  too  calloused  with  misery  to  care 
about  anything, 

"It's  the  awful,  brutal  sinking  that  fixes  me;  as  if  I 
were  suddenly  being  let  down  the  elevator  shaft  of  th." 
Singer  Building  at  full  speed,  ten  thousand  times  a  day, 
tJitn  as  suddenly  yanked  up  again.  By  the  dim  light  I  ca'n 
see  hundreds  of  cockroaches  crawling  everywhere  around 
me,  elongated,  coffee-coloured  cockroaches,  big  ones,  mid- 
dle-sized ones,  tiny  baby  ones.  They  wander  to  and  fro, 
fearless  and  apparently  aimless.  But  perhaps  I  am  wrong 
about  this.  Perhajjs  they  are  moved  by  a  purpose;  per- 
haps they  are  even  in  tlie  midst  of  a  celebration  —  follow- 
ing the  mazes  of  a  cockroach  cotillion.  As  I  lie  watching 
them  I  speculate  on  this.  What  they  live  on  may  be 
guessed  at.  And  as  if  to  mock  me  on  my  bed  of  woe  nil 
the  rollicking,  frolicking  sea-songs  I  have  ever  heard  keep 
up  a  devilish  concert  in  my  head,  singing  the  praises  of  this 
fiendish  and  insatiable  sea." 

For  nine-tenths  of  his  time  the  artist  lives  the  lives 
of  other  men  more  vividly  than  his  own ;  for  the  other 
tenth,  his  own  ten  tinies  more  vividly  than  other  men. 
Of  such  transcendent  tenths  creation  comes.  It  was 
then  from  the  very  poignancy  of  njy  sufferings  that  I 
began  to  evolve  a  paper  on  the  pangs  of  mal-de-mer. 
It  was  to  be  the  final  expression  of  the  psychology  of 
sea-sickness.  Even  as  I  lay  squirming  in  that  sour, 
viscid  gloom  I  rejoiced  in  the  rapture  of  creation.  It 
seemed,  I  thought,  the  best  thing  I  had  ever  done. 
Though  I  had  not  put  pen  to  paper,  there  it  was,  clearly 
written  in  my  brain,  every  word  sure  of  its  election, 
every  sentence  ringing  true.  I  longed  to  sec  it  staring 
me  from  the  printed  page. 

And  on  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day  I  arose  and 
regarded  my  shaving  nurror.     My  face  had  peaked  and 


A  SEASICK  SENTIMENTALIST  45 

paled,  and  was  covered  with  fluffy  hair,  so  that  I  looked 
like  a  pre-Raphaelite  Christ.  Indeed,  so  jpsthetic  was 
iny  appearance  I  had  to  restrain  myself  from  speaking 
in  blank  verse. 

How  glorious  was  the  clear,  sweet  air  again !  [  With 
every  breath  of  it  I  felt  new  life.  |  The  sea  was  very 
nmiable  now,  |  and  playing  children  paved  the  sunlit 
deck.  I  A  score  of  babies  punctuated  the  picturesque 
confusion.  On  the  decks  above  the  plebeian  seconds 
and  th"  patrician  firsts  presented  two  tiers  of  amused 
faces.  They  were  like  curious  spectators  looking  down 
into  a  bear  pit. 

Then  suddenly  did  I  realise  my  severance  from  my 
class,  and,  strange  to  say,  it  aroused  in  me  a  kind  of 
defiant  rage.  For  the  first  time  democracy  inspired 
mc.  For  five  days  I  had  starved  and  suffered  — or 
was  it  five  years?  Anyway,  the  life  of  luxury  and 
ease  seemed  far  away.  Goaded  by  the  gay  shouts  of 
the  shuffle-boarder  on  the  upper  deck,  I  felt  to  the  full 
the  resentment  of  the  under-dog,  yea,  ready  to  raise 
the  red  flag  of  revolt  behind  blood-boltered  barricades 
of  hate. 

But  all  at  once  I  became  conscious  of  another  sensa- 
tion equally  exorbitant.  It  was  the  first  pang  of  a 
hungt;r  such  as  never  in  my  life  had  I  endured.  In 
imagination  I  saw  myself  at  Sherry's,  conning  the  bill 
of  fare.  With  what  an  undreamt-of  gusto  I  made  a 
selection!  How  I  revelled  in  a  dazzling  vision  of 
delicate  dishes  served  with  sympathy!  It  was  a 
gourmet's  dream,  the  exquisite  conception  of  a  modern 
LucuKus.  I  almost  drooled  as  I  dictated  it  to  a 
reverent  head-waiter.  Yea,  I  was  half  hunger-mad. 
WTien,  oh  when,  would  lunch-time  come? 


(6 


THE  PRETENDER 


It  came.  It  was  the  first  meal  I  had  seen  served 
in  the  steerage,  and  it  was  served  in  buckets.  You 
dipped  into  one,  spiked  a  slab  of  beef  floating  in  greasy 
swill,  shovelled  a  wad  of  macaroni  from  a  tin  wash- 
basin to  your  tin  plate,  grabbed  a  chunk  of  stale  bread 
from  a  clothes  basket:  there  you  were,  set  up  for  an- 
other five  hours. 

Too  ravenous  to  demur,  I  seized  my  tin  plate  and 
rushed  the  ration-slingers.  The  messy  meat  I  could  not 
stomach,  but  I  pried  loose  a  little  mountain  of  macaroni. 
I  was  busy  wolfing  it  when  on  looking  up  I  saw  the 
youngest  IVIiss  Chumley  Grace  regarding  me  curiously. 
With  many  others  she  had  come  to  see  the  animals 
fed. 

"  It's  dollars  to  doughnuts,"  I  thought,  "  she'll  never 
know  me  in  this  beard.  But  all  the  same  I'll  keep  my 
face  concealid." 

I  had  finished  feeding,  and  was  washing  my  plate 
at  a  running  tap,  when  all  at  once  I  dropped  it  as  if  it 
had  been  red-hot.  Brushing  every  one  asid^  I  made 
a  leap  for  my  cabin,  and  reached  it,  I  will  swear,  in 
record  time.  Frantically  I  felt  under  the  pillow  nf  my 
bunk.  Too  late!  Too  late!  The  wallet  in  which  I 
kept  my  money  was  gone. 

"Alas!"  I  sighed.  "My  faith  in  Roman  honesty 
has  received  a  nasty  knock." 

I  did  not  report  my  loss.  I  was  afraid  the  inevit- 
able fuss  would  betray  me  to  the  Chumley  Graces.  I 
seemed  to  spend  my  whole  time  dodging  them  now. 
Once  or  t'-ice  I  found  the  spectacled  gaze  of  poppa 
fixed  upon  me.  Many  times  I  sneaked  away  under  the 
scrutiny   of  the  girls.     All  this  added  to   my  other 


A  SEASICK  SENTIMENTALIST 


47 


miseries,  which  in  themselves  might  have  served  Dante 
for  another  canto  of  his  Inferno. 

But  at  last  it  was  over.  There  was  the  blue  bay  of 
Naples.  Now  we  were  manoeuvring  into  the  seething 
harbour.  Now  we  wt-re  keeping  off  with  streams  of 
water  boatmen  who  retaliated  by  hurling  billets  of 
wood.  Now  we  were  throwing  dimes  to  the  diving 
boys.  Now  there  ran  through  the  ship  the  thrill  of 
first  contact  with  the  dock.  Hurrah !  In  a  few  more 
moments  I  should  be  free,  free  to  follow  the  Trail  of 
Beautiful  Adventure.  True,  I  was  broke;  but  what 
a  fine,  clean  feeling  that  was ! 

Clutching  my  alligator-skin  suitcase  I  reconnoitered, 
with  conspiratorial  wariness.  Cautiously  i  crept  out. 
Soft!;.  I  sneaked  over  to  the  nearest  gangway.  My 
foot  was  on  it;  in  another  moment  I  would  have  made 
my  escape.  I  could  have  laughed  with  joy  when  — 
a  little  hand  was  laid  on  my  arm,  and  turning  quickly 
I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  the  youngest  Miss 
("humley  Grace. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Madden,"  she  chirped,  "  we  knew  you  all 
along,  but  it's  been  such  fun  watching  you.  Do  tell 
me,  now,  aren't  you  just  doing  it  for  a  bet?  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

AN  INVOLUNTARY  FIANCE 

Alas  and  alas !  I  am  engaged  —  an  engagement 
according  to  Hoyle,  sanctioned  by  poppa  and  sealed 
with  a  solitaire  —  irrevocably,  overwhelmingly,  engaged. 

Who  would  have  dreamed  it?  But  in  the  groat 
round-up  of  matrimony,  isn't  't  always  the  unexpected 
that  happens?  I  was  run  down,  roped,  thrown,  before 
I  knew  what  was  happening  to  me.  And  the  brand  on 
me  is  "  Guinivere  Chumley  Grace." 

She  is  the  youngest,  the  open-airiest,  the  most  super- 
strenuous  of  the  sporting  sisters.  She  slays  foxes, 
slaughters  pheasants,  has  even  made  an  air-flight.  I 
have  no  doubt  she  despises  poor,  ordinary  women  who 
cook  steaks,  darn  socks  and  take  an  intelligent  interest 
in  babies. 

And  this  is  the  girl  I  am  going  to  marry,  I  who  hate 
horse-flesh,  would  not  slay  a  blue-bottle  promenading 
on  my  nose,  admire  the  domestic  virtues,  and  hope  that 
a  woman  will  never  cease  to  scream  at  the  sight  of  a 
mouse.  Can  it  be  wondered  at  that  I  am  in  the  depths 
of  despair? 

And  it  is  all  the  fault  of  Italy? 

Naples  sprang  at  me,  and,  as  we  say,  "  put  it  all 
over  me."  Such  welters  of  colourful  life !  Such  visions 
of  jcy  and  dirt !  Such  ^  ot-beds  of  rank-growing  hu- 
manity! Diving  boys  and  piratical  longshoremen; 
plumed  guardians  of  the  police  and  ragged  lazzaroni; 

whooping    donkey    drivers    and    pestiferous    guides; 

48 


AN  INVOLUNTARY  FIANCfi 


49 


rlaniour,  colour,  confusion,  all  to  bewilder  my  prim 
.\runlmttan  mind. 

What  a  disappointment  that  had  been ;  to  stand  there 
one  exultant  moment  with  the  Trail  of  Beautiful  Adven- 
ture glimmering  before ;  the  next,  to  be  hemmed  in  by 
the  jubilant  Chumley  Graces,  and  hurried  to  the 
haughtiest  of  hotels,  where  poppa  insisted  on  cashing 
my  cheque  for  five  hundred  dollars. 

But  resignation  to  one's  fate  is  comparatively  easy 
in  Naples.  There,  where  villa  and  vineyard  dream  by 
an  amethystine  sea  where  purple  Capri  and  violet  Vesu- 
vius shimmer  and  change  with  every  mood  of  sun  and 
breeze,  the  line  of  least  resistance  seems  alluringly  ap- 
propriate. 

There  were  days  in  which  (accompanied  by  Miss 
Guinivere  Chumley  Grace)  I  roamed  the  Via  Roma, 
stimulated  by  the  vivid  life  that  seethed  around  me; 
when  I  watched  the  bronze  fishermen  pull  in  their  long, 
sea-curving  nets ;  when  the  laziness  of  the  lazzartmi  fell 
upon  me. 

There  were  evenings  in  which  (accompanied  by 
Guinivere  Chumley  Grace)  I  sat  on  the  terrace  of  the 
hotel,  caressed  by  the  balmy  breeze,  listening  to  the 
far-borne  melody  of  mandolins,  and  gazing  at  the  topaz 
lights  that  fringed  the  throbbing  vast  of  foam  and 
starlight. 

There  were  nights  when  (accompanied  by  Guinivere) 
I  watched  the  dull  reflection  of  fiery-bowled  Vesuvius, 
dreaming  of  the  richly  storied  past,  and  feeling  my 
heart  stir  with  a  thousand  sweet  wonderings  of  romance. 

Can  it  be  wondered,  then,  that  some  of  this  rapture 
and  romance  found  an  echo  in  my  heart?  Here  was 
the  time,  the  place,  and  —  Guinivere.     Only  by  a  vio- 


50 


THE  PRETENDER 


onteffort  could  I  have  saved  myself,  and  violent  efforts 

Z^r."^    \rr^.°^''^^'-     ^'°'  '•very thing  seemed  to 
happen  w.th  relentless  logic;  and  so  one  afternoon,  look- 
ing down  on  the  sweeping  glory  of  the  bay  the  follow- 
ing conversation  took  place : 
She:     Isn't  it  ripping? 

I:     Yes    it's  too  lovely  for  words.     Why  cannot  we 
make    our    lives    a    harvest    of    such    golden 
memories? 
She:     Yes,  it  would  be  awfully  jolly,  wouldn't  it? 
l:     If  we  cannot  make  the  moment  eternal,  let  us  at 

least  live  eternal  in  the  moment. 
She:     But  how  can  we? 

I  wasn't  sure  how  we  could,  nor  was  I  sure  what  I 
meant;  but  the  freckled  face  was  looking  up  at  me  so 
inquiringly,  and  the  crisp-lipped  mouth  was  pouted  so 
invitingly  that  I  sought  the  solution  there.  She,  on 
her  part,  evidently  found  it  so  satisfactory  that  I  laid 
considerable  emphasis  on  it,  and  I  was  still  further 
accentuating  the  emphasis  when  on  looking  up  I  found 
myself  confronted  by  the  stony,  spectacled  stare  of 
poppa. 

Anathema!  Miseracordia !  After  that  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  ask  for  his  blessing.  I  could  not 
plead  poverty,  for  he  is  a  director  in  most  of  the  rail- 
ways m  which  I  hold  shares.  The  god  of  fools,  who 
had  so  often  moved  to  save  me,  had  this  time  left  me 
on  the  lurch.  So  it  came  about  that  I  spent  three 
hMr.Jred  dollars  out  of  my  five  in  the  purchase  of  a 
diamond  ring;  and  there  matters  stand. 

Well,  I  shall  have  to  go  through  with  it.  If  there 
IS  one  idea  more  than  another  I  hold  up  to  mv^elf 
It  IS  that  of  The  Man  who  Makes  Good.     I  have  never 


AN  INVOLUNTARY  FIANCft 


51 


i 


bciii  untrue  to  iiiv  promises;  and  now  I  have  promised 
(iuioivere  a  cottage  at  Newport  and  a  flat  in  town. 
Life  looms  before  me  a  grey  vista  of  conventional 
inonctony  and  Riverside  Drive. 

If  only  she  cared  for  any  of  the  things  I  do!  But 
no!  She  is  one  of  the  useless  daughters  of  the  rich, 
who  expect  to  be  petted,  pampered  and  provided  for 
in  the  way  they  have  been  accustomed,  forgetting  that 
the  old  man  struggled  a  lifetime  to  give  them  that 
limousine  and  the  house  on  Fifth  Avenue.  She  is  one 
of  the  great  army  of  women  who  think  men  should 
sweat  that  women  may  spend.  I  have  always  main- 
tained that  it  was  a  woman's  place  to  do  her  share  of 
the  work;  and  here  I  was,  marrying  a  pleasure-seeker, 
an  idler. 

Better,  I  thought,  some  daughter  of  democracy ;  yea, 
even  such  a  one  as  but  a  little  ago  tidied  my  apartment, 
that  dark-haired  damsel  with  the  melancholy  mouth  and 
the  eyes  of  an  odalisque. 

As  I  pretended  to  work  I  had  often  watched  my 
charming  chambermaid ;  but  my  interest  was  purely  pro- 
fessional, till  one  day  it  was  stimulated  by  an  unusual 
incident.  There  was  a  villainous-looking  valet-dc- 
chambre  who  brought  me  my  coffee  and  rolls  in  the 
morning,  and  who  presided  over  a  little  pantry  from 
which  they  seemed  to  emanate.  Passing  this  pantry,  I 
witnessed  a  brisk  scuffle  between  the  chambermaid  and 
the  valet.  He  made  an  effort  to  kiss  her,  and  she  re- 
pulsed him  with  evident  disgust.  From  then  on  I  could 
see  the  two  were  at  daggers  drawn,  and  that  the  man 
only  waited  a  chance  to  take  his  revenge. 

After  that,  it  may  not  be  deemed  strange  that  I 
should  have  taken  a  more  personal  interest  in  my  hand- 


52 


THE  PRETENDER 


maid;  that  I  should  have  practised  my  Italian  on  her 
on  every  opportunity;  that  I  should  have  found  her 
name  to  be  Lucrezia  Poppolini,  and  that  of  her  tor- 
mentor, Victor.  A  spirit  of  protection  glowed  in  me; 
I  half  hoped  for  dramatic  developments,  pitied  her  in 
her  evident  unhappiness,  and  vowed  that  if  she  were 
persecuted  any  more  I  would  take  a  hand  in  the  game. 

In  a  rhapsodic  veil.  I  had  begun  an  article  on  Naples, 
and  ranged  far  and  wide  in  search  of  impressions.  It 
was  one  evening  I  had  pleaded  work  to  escape  from 
Gumivere  (who  was  getting  on  my  nerves),  and  I  had 
sought  the  quarter  of  the  town  down  by  the  fish-market. 
Frequently  had  I  been  moved  to  remark  that  in  Naples 
there  seemed  to  be  no  d  nger  of  depopulation,  and  the 
appearance  of  a  good  woman  approaching  strengthened 
my  conviction.  Then  as  she  came  close  I  saw  that  she 
was  only  a  girl,  very  poor,  and  intensely  miserable. 
But  something  else  made  me  start  and  stare:  she  was 
the  exact  counterpart  of  my  interesting  chambermaid. 

"  Perhaps  they  are  twin  sisters,"  thought  I.  «*  This 
girl's  trouble  would  account  for  the  worry  and  sadness 
on  the  face  of  Lucrezia.     Here  is  material  for  drama." 

So  taken  was  I  by  my  twin-sister  theory,  that  I  ended 
by  half-convincing  myself  I  was  right.  Then,  by  a 
little  play  of  fancy,  I  allowed  for  the  following  dramatis 
personte : 

"  Victor,  the  Villainous  \alet. 
Lucreeia,  the  Chaste  Chambermaid. 
Twin  Sister  in  trouble. 
False  Lover  of  Twin  Sister. 
Aged  Parent" 

Thus  you  will  see  how  my  little  drama  was  interesting 
me.     On  her  daily  visits  to  my  room,  I  watched  my  poor 


AN  INVOLUNTARY  FIANC6 


0S 


heroiiu'  with  sympathetic  heart.  What  was  going  to 
happtn?  Probably  Aged  Parent  would  stab  False 
Lover,  and  Villainous  Valet,  who  happened  to  witness 
the  deed,  would  demand  as  the  price  of  his  silence  the 
honour  of  Chaste  Chambermaid.  How  I  began  to  hate 
the  man  as  he  roused  me  at  eight  o'clock  with  my  steam- 
ing Mocha !  H  w  I  began  to  pity  the  girl  as  dreary 
and  distraught  she  changed  my  towels!  Surely  the 
dhioiiement  was  close  at  hand. 

Poppa  and  I  shared  a  parlour  from  which  opened  out 
respective  bedrooms.  It  had  outlook  on  the  bay,  and 
often  the  girls  would  sit  there  with  their  father  instead 
of  in  their  own  aalon.  I  waj»  not  surprised,  then,  on 
my  return  from  a  copy-hunting  expedition  to  hear  the 
sound  of  many  voices  coming  from  within. 

But  I  was  decidedly  surprised,  on  opening  the  door, 
to  find  quite  a  dramatic  scene  being  enacted.  The  backs 
of  the  actors  were  to  me,  and  they  did  not  see  me  enter. 
In  the  centre  of  the  stage,  as  it  were,  were  Victor 
and  Lucrezia.  Behind  them  the  fat  little  manager  of 
the  hotel.  To  the  right  poppa  and  Guinivere.  To  the 
left  Edythe  and  Gladys,  the  elder  sisters. 

Lucrezia  looked  pale  as  death,  and  cowered  as  if 
some  one  had  struck  her.  Facing  her,  with  flashing  eyes 
and  accusive  digit  was  the  vengeful  Victor.  The  little 
manager  was  trying  to  control  the  situation,  while 
poppa  and  offspring,  staring  blankly,  vere  endeavour- 
ing to  follow  the  Italian  of  it. 

"Baggage!  Thief!"  Victor  was  cry'ng.  «I  saw 
her.  I  stole  after  her !  I  watched  her  enter  the  signor's 
room.  There  on  the  dressing  table  it  was,  the  little 
purse  he  had  so  carekssly  left.  She  draws  near,  she 
examines  it  .  .  .  quick!     She  pushes  it  into  her  blouse 


.'i^ 


THE  PRETENDER 


—  so.  Oh,  I  saw  it  all  through  the  chink  of  the 
door." 

"  No,  no,"  the  girl  protested,  in  accents  of  terror  and 
distress ;  "  I  took  nothing,  I  swear  by  the  Virgin,  noth- 
ing. He  lies.  He  would  make  for  me  trouble.  I  am 
innocent,  innocent." 

'*  I  am  no  liar,"  snarled  the  man.  "  If  you  do  not 
believe  me,  see  —  she  has  it  now.  Search  her.  Look 
in  the  bosom  of  her  dress.     Ah !  I  will  .  .  ." 

He  caught  her  roughly.  There  was  a  scuffle  in  which 
she  screamed,  and  from  her  corsage  he  tore  forth  a 
small  flat  object. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you !  "  he  cried  vindictively.  "  Wh(» 
is  the  liar  now.?  Oh,  thief!  thief !  I,  Victor,  have  un- 
masked thee — " 

Here  he  turned  round  and  suddenly  beheld  me.  His 
manner  grew  more  exultant.  "  Ha !  It  is  the  signor 
himself." 

Then  I  saw  that  what  he  held  out  so  triumphantly 
was  my  little  gold  purse,  and  in  the  breathless  pause 
that  followed,  cinema  pictures  were  flashing  and  flicker- 
ing in  my  brain.  How  vivid  they  were!  Twin  sister 
imploring  aid  —  girl  distracted  —  no  money  to  give  her 

—  What's  to  be  done.?  —  Suddenly  sees  gold  purse  — 
Temptation:  "  I'll  just  borrow  one  little  piece.  The 
signor  will  never  miss  it.     Some  day  I'll  pay  it  back." 

How  she  struggles,  gazes  at  it  like  one  fascinated, 
puts  out  a  hand,  shrinks  back,  looks  round  fearfully! 
Then  at  last  she  takes  it  in  her  hand;  —  a  sudden 
noise, —  impulsively  she  pushes  it  in  the  bosom  of  her 
dress.  Then  Victor's  high  pitched  voice  of  denuncia- 
tion, bringing  every  one  on  the  scene. 

All  this  I  saw  in  a  luminous  moment,  but  —  where 


AN  INVOLUNTARY  FIANCf. 


55 


did  I  come  in?  My  heart  bled  for  the  poor  girl  so  tried, 
HO  tempted.  A  quixotic  flame  leapt  in  me.  There  was 
the  vindictive  valet;  there  was  the  frail  Lucrezia;  there 
was  the  centre  of  the  stage  waiting  for  what?  —  me. 
Ah !  could  I  ever  resist  the  centre  of  the  stage? 

So  I  stepped  quietly  forward,  and,  to  complete  the 
(istic  effect,  the  girl,  who  had  been  gazing  at  me  with 
growing  terror,  swayed  as  if  to  faint.  Deftly  I  caught 
her  over  my  left  arm;  then  with  the  other  hand  I 
snatched  the  purse  from  the  astonished  Victor,  and  de- 
liberately pushed  it  back  into  the  blouse  of  Lucrezia. 

"  The  girl  is  innocent,"  I  said  calmly ;  "  the  money 
is  her  own.     I,  myself,  gave  it  to  her, —  this  morning." 
•••••♦• 

Of  the  scene  that  followed  I  have  no  vivid  recollection. 
I  was  conscious  that  poppa  herded  his  flock  hurriedly 
from  the  room;  that  Lucrezia  disappeared  with  sur- 
prising suddenness;  that  the  dumbfounded  Victor  was 
ordered  to  "  begone  "  by  an  indignant  maitre  cThotel, 
who,  while  extremely  polite,  seemed  to  regard  me  with 
something  of  reproach. 

I  was,  in  fact,  rather  dazed  by  my  sudden  action,  so 
hastily  packing  the  alligator-skin  suitcase  I  paid  my 
bill  and  ordered  a  carriage.  Telling  the  man  to  drive 
in  the  direction  of  Possillipo,  I  there  selected  a  hotel  of 
a  more  diffident  type,  and,  in  view  of  ray  reduced 
finances,  engaged  a  single  room. 

The  day  following  was  memorable  for  two  interviews. 
The  first,  in  the  forenoon,  was  with  poppa.  He  had  no 
doubt  found  my  address  from  the  coachman,  and  had 
come  to  have  it  out  with  me.  In  his  most  puritanical 
manner  he  wanted  to  know  why  I  gave  the  girl  the 
money. 


riG 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  I  refuse  to  explain,"  I  said  sour'  v 

"  Then,  sir,  I  must  refuse  to  consiiier  you  worthy  of 
my  daughter's  hand." 

My  heart  leapt.  Escape  from  Guinivere !  It  seenjed 
too  good  to  be  true.  Lucrezia,  I  thank  thee !  Nor  do 
I  grudge  thee  twice  the  gold  thy  purse  contains.  Con- 
cealing my  joy  I  answered: 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  please,  sir." 

His  church-deacon  face  relaxed  a  little.  He  had  evi- 
dently expected  more  trouble. 

"  And  I  must  ask  you,  sir,  not  to  communicate  with 
her  in  any  way." 

I  summoned  a  look  of  sadness  worthy  of  a  lover  whose 
heart  is  broken. 

"  As  her  father,"  I  observed  submissively,  "  your 
wishes  must  be  respected." 

He  laid  a  small  box  on  the  table.  "  Guinivere  re- 
turns you  your  ring."  Then  he  hesitated  a  little. 
"Have  you  notliing  at  all  to  say  for  yourself?  I  too 
have  been  young ;  I  can  make  some  allowance,  but  there 
are  limits.  I  don't  like  to  think  that  you  are  an  abso- 
lute scoundrel." 

"  If  I  were  to  tell  you,"  I  said,  "  that  I  gave  the  girl 
the  money  out  of  pure  philanthropy,  gave  it  to  help  a 
wretched  twin-sister  with  an  unborn  babe, —  what  would 
you  say  ?  " 

'*  I  would  say  you  were  trying  to  bolster  up  your 
intrigue  with  a  fiction.  Bah!  Young  men  don't  give 
purses  of  gold  to  pretty  girls  out  of  philanthropy. 
Besides,  we  have  discovered  that  your  precious  friend 
is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  hotel  thief.  A  detective 
arrived  just  after  you  left  and  identified  her." 


A\  INVOLUNTARY  FIANCE 


67 


"I  tlon't  believe  it,"  I  said  indignantly.  "These 
Italian  women  all  look  alike.  Where's  the  poor  girl 
now?" 

He  grinned  sarcastically.  "Probably  it  is  I  who 
should  ask  you  that." 

His  meaning  was  so  obvious  I  rose  and  smilingly 
opened  the  door.  Off  he  went  with  a  snort,  and  that 
was  the  last  I  ever  saw  of  poppa. 

But  my  second  interview!  It  took  place  at  ten  in 
the  evening.  I  was  reading  the  Italian  paper  in  bed 
when  there  came  a  soft  knock  at  my  door. 

"  Come  m,"  I  said,  thinking  it  was  the  valet  with  my 
nightcap.  Then,  as  if  moved  by  a  spring  I  sat  bolt 
upright.  With  one  hand  I  tried  to  fasten  the  neck 
button  of  my  pyjamas,  with  the  other  to  smooth  down 
my  disordered  locks.  I  verily  believe  I  blushed  all  over, 
for  who  should  my  late  visitor  be  but  —  Lucrezia. 

She  was  dressed  astonishingly  well,  and  looked  alto- 
gether differi  from  the  slim,  trim  domestic  I  had 
known.  Indeed,  being  all  in  black,  she  might  have  well 
passed  for  a  charming  young  widow.  Of  course  I  was 
embarrassed  beyond  all  words,  but  if  she  shared  my  feel- 
ing she  did  not  show  it. 

'*0h,  signor,  how  can  I  thank  you?"  she  cried,  ad- 
vancing swiftly. 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  stammered ;  "  pray  calm  yourself. 
Kxcuse  me  n  i  civing  you  in  this  deshabille.  Please  take 
a  scat." 

I  indicated  a  chair  some  distance  away,  but  to  my 
confusion  she  seated  herself  near  me.  I  reached  for 
my  jacket  and  wriggled  into  it;  after  which  I  felt  more 
at  ease. 


58 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  I  have  just  found  out  where  you  were,"  she  began. 
"  I  could  not  wait  until  to-morrow  to  thank  you. 
You'll  forgive  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

Really  she  spoke  remarkably  well.  Really  she  looked 
remarkably  stunning.  Her  complexion  had  the  tone  of 
old  ivory,  and  her  eyes  of  an  odalisque  seemed  to  refract 
all  the  light  of  the  room.  I  could  feel  them  fixed  on 
me  in  a  distracting,  magnetising  way. 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  I  answered ;  "  there's  nothing 
to  forgive.  It's  very  good  of  you  to  think  of  thanking 
me." 

She  begun  to  fumble  with  a  glove  button.  "  Tell 
me,"  she  almost  whispered,  "  tell  me,  why  did  you  do 
it?" 

"  Oh,  I  —  I  dpn't  quite  know.?  " 

She  threw  out  her  hands  with  an  impulsive  gesture. 
Her  black  eyes  glowed  fiercely,  then  grew  soft. 

"  Was  it  because  you  —  you  loved  me  ?  " 

I  stared.  This  was  too  much.  Was  the  girl  mad? 
I  replied  with  some  asperity: 

"  No,  it  was  because  I  thought  you  must  be  in  some 
desperate  trouble.  I  was  sorry  for  you.  I  wanted  to 
save  you." 

"  Ah !  you  were  right.  I  was  in  great  trouble,  and 
you  alone  understood.  You  are  noble,  signer,  noble; 
Ijut  you  are  cold.  We  women  of  the  South,  we  are  so 
different.  When  we  love,  we  love  with  all  the  heart. 
We  do  not  conceal  it ;  we  do  not  deny  it.  Know,  then, 
signer,  fronj  the  moment  you  came  so  bravely  to  my  aid 
like  some  hero  of  romance  I  loved  you,  loved  you  with 
a  passion  that  makes  me  forget  all  else.  And  you,  you 
do  not  care.  It  is  nothing  to  you.  Oh,  unhappy  me! 
Tell  me,  signor,  do  you  not  think  you  can  love  me?  " 


AN  INVOLUNTARY  FIANCE 


.-59 


I  shrank  back  to  the  furthest  limit  of  the  bed-post. 
Again  I  thought :  "  Surely  the  girl  is  mad,  perhaps 
dangerous  as  well.  I've  heard  that  these  Neapolitan 
girls  all  carry  daggers.  I  hope  this  young  lady 
doesn't  follow  the  fashion.  I  think  I'd  better  humour 
her." 

Aloud  I  said:  "I  don't  know.  This  is  so  sudden 
I  haven't  had  time  to  analyse  my  feelings  yet.  Perhaps 
I  do.  Give  me  to-night  to  think  of  it.  Come  to-mor- 
row. But  anyway,  why  should  I  let  myself  love  you? 
I  am  a  bird  of  passage.  I  have  business.  I  must  go 
away  in  a  few  days." 

"  Where  is  the  signor  going?  " 
"  To  Paris,"  I  said  cautiously. 
Her  strange  eyes  gleamed  with  tragic  fire.     **  If  you 
go  to  Paris  without  me,"  she  cried  passionately,  "  I  will 
follow  you." 

"Well,  well,"  I  said  soothingly,  "we'll  see.  But 
now  please  leave  me  to  think  of  all  this.  Don't  you 
see  I'm  agitated?  You've  taken  me  by  surprise. 
Please  give  me  till  to-morrow." 

Her  brows  knit  with  jealous  suspicion.  I  half 
thought  she  was  going  to  reach  for  that  dagger,  but 
instead  she  rose  abruptly. 

"  Oh,  you  are  cold,  you  men  of  the  North.  I  shall 
leave  you  at  once." 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  eagerly ;  "  go  quickly,  before  any 
one  finds  you  here." 

"  Bah !  "  she  exploded  with  fierce  cortempt ;  "  what 
does  it  matter?  But,  signor,  will  you  let  me  kiss 
you?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish."     I  extended  one  cheek. 
She  gave  me  a  quick,  smothering  embrace  from  which 


60 


THE  PRETENDER 


I  had  dIfRculty  in  detaching  myself.  "  To-morrow, 
then,  without  fail.     But  where  and  when  ?  " 

"  I'll  meet  you  at  the  Aquarium  at  eleven  o'clock," 
I  said. 

"  At  the  Aquarium,  then.  And  you'll  think  of  me? 
And  you'll  try  to  love  me?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will.  Please  go  out  very  quietly.  Au 
revoir  till  eleven  to-morrow." 

But  by  eleven  o'clock  next  morning  I  was  exultantly 
on  my  way  to  London. 


CHAPTER  VII 
A  BOTTLE  OF  INK 

The  disadvantage  of  persistent  globe-trotting  is  that 
it  makes  the  world  so  deplorably  provincial.  With 
familiarity  the  glamour  of  the  far  and  strange  is  swept 
away,  till  a€  last  there  b  nothing  left  to  startle  and 
delight.  Better,  indeed,  to  leave  shrines  unvisited 
and  shores  unsought;  then  may  we  still  hold  them 
fondly  under  the  domination  of  dream. 

Much  had  I  read  of  the  lure  of  London,  of  its  hold 
upon  the  heart;  but  to  the  end  I  entirely  failed  to 
realise  its  charm.  To  me  in  those  grim  December 
days  it  always  remained  the  City  of  Grime  and  Gloom, 
so  that  I  ultimately  left  it  the  poorer  by  a  score  of 
lost  illusions. 

Drawing  near  the  Great  Grey  City  —  how  I  had 
looked  forward  to  this  moment  as,  alert  to  every  im- 
pression, I  stared  from  the  window  of  the  train!  Yet 
at  its  very  threshold  I  shrank  appalled.  Could  I  be- 
lieve my  eyes?  There  confronting  me  was  street  after 
street  of  tiny  houses  all  built  in  the  same  way.  Nay, 
I  do  not  exaggerate.  They  were  as  alike  as  ninepins, 
dirty,  drab  cubes,  each  with  the  same  oblong  of  sordid 
back-yard,  the  same  fringe  of  abortive  front  garden. 
Oh  what  a  welter  of  architectural  crime!  Could  it 
be  wondered  at  that  the  bricks  of  which  they  were 
composed  seemed  to  blush  with  shame? 

Then  the  roofs  closed  in  till  they  fonncd  a  veritable 
plain,  on  which  regiments  of  chimneys  seemed  to  stand 

61 


an 


THE  PRETENDER 


at  attention  amid  saffron  fog.  Then  great,  gloomy  cor- 
rugations, down  which  1  could  see  ant-like  armies  mov- 
ing hither  and  thither:  then  an  arrest  in  a  place  of 
steam  and  smoke  and  skurrying  and  shouting:  Char- 
ing Cross  Station. 

How  it  was  spitefully  cold!  Autos  squattered 
throagh  the  tar-black  mud.  A  fine  drizzle  of  rain 
was  falling,  }et  save  myself  no  one  seemed  to  mind 
it  —  so  cheery  and  comfortable  seemed  those  red-faced 
Islanders  in  their  City  of  Soot.  Soot,  at  that  moment, 
was  to  me  all-dominant.  Eagerly  it  overlaid  the 
buildings  of  brick;  joyfully  it  grimed  those  of  stone. 
It  swathed  the  monuments,  and  it  achieved  on  the 
churches  daring  effects  in  black  and  grey.  After  all, 
it  had  undoubted  artistic  value.  Then  a  smudge  of 
it  settled  on  my  nose,  and  with  every  breath  I  seemed 
to  inhale  it.  Finally  a  skittish  motor  bus  bespattered 
me  with  that  tar-like  mud  and  I  felt  dirtier  than  ever. 

But  what  amount  of  drizzle  could  damp  my  romantic 
ardour  as  suitcase  in  hand  I  stood  in  Trafalgar  Square? 
Here  was  another  occasion  for  that  sentimental  reverie 
which  WAS  my  specialty,  so  I  began: 

"  Alone  in  London,  in  the  seething  centre  of  its 
canorous  immensity.  Around  me  swirl  the  swift, 
incurious  crowds.  Oh,  City  of  a  million  sorrows! 
here  do  I  come  to  thee  poor,  friendless,  unknown, 
yet  oh!  so  rich  in  hope.  Shall  I  then  knock  at  thy 
countless  doors  in  vain?     Shall  I  then — " 

A  sneeze  interrupted  me  at  this  point.  It  is  hard 
to  sneeze  and  be  sentimental;  besides,  I  recognised 
in  the  words  I  had  just  spoken  those  I  had  put  into 
the  mouth  of  Harold  Cleaveshaw,  hero  of  my  novel. 
The  Hondkap.     But   then   Harold   had   posed   in   the 


A  BOTTLE  OF  INK 


63 


centre  of  Madison  Square  and  addressed  his  rcinnrks 
to  the  Flatiron  Building,  while  I  was  addressing  the 
Nelson  Monument  and  a  fountain  whose  water  seemed 
saturated  with  soot. 

Do  not  think  the  moment  was  wasted,  however. 
Far  from  it.  The  likeness  suggested  an  article  com- 
paring the  two  cities.  For  instance:  New  York,  a 
concretion;  London,  an  accretion;  New  York,  an  up- 
lift ;  London,  an  outspread ;  New  York,  blatant ;  Lon- 
don, smug;  New  York,  a  city  on  tiptoe,  raw,  bright, 
wind-besomed ;  London,  the  nightmare  of  a  dyspeptic 
chimney-sweep;  New  York,  a  city  bom,  organic,  spon- 
taneous; London,  an  accident,  a  patchwork,  a  piecing 
on;  and  so  on. 

Pondering  these  and  other  points  of  contrast,  I 
wandered  up  Charing  Cross  Road  into  Oxford  Street. 
In  a  bookshop  I  saw,  with  a  curious  feeling  of  detach- 
ment, a  sixpenny  edition  of  my  novel.  The  Red  Cor- 
puscle. Somehow  at  that  moment  I  could  scarcely  as- 
sociate myself  with  it.  So  absorbed  was  I  becoming  in 
my  new  part  that  the  previous  one  was  already  unreal 
to  me.  I  took  up  the  book  with  positive  dislike,  and 
was  turning  it  over  when  an  officious  shop-boy  sug- 
gested: 

"  Don't  you  want  to  read  it,  mister?  " 
"Heaven  forbid!"  I  replied;  "I  wrote  it." 
He  sniffed,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Think  you're  smart, 
don't  you?" 

Up  Southampton  Row  I  chanced,  and  in  a  little 
street  off  Tavistock  Square  I  found  a  temporary  home. 
A  cat  sleeping  on  a  window-sill  suggested  Peace,  and 
a  donkey-cart  piled  high  with  cabbages  pointed  to 
Plenty.     But   as  cabbages  do  not  find  favour  in  the 


64 


THE  PRETENDER 


tyrannical  laboratory  of  my  digestion,  I  vetoed  Mrs. 
Switcher's  proposal  that  I  take  dinner  in  the  house. 
However,  I  ordered  ham  and  eggs  every  morning,  with 
an  alternative  of  haddock  or  sausage  and  bacon. 

These  matters  settled,  I  found  myself  the  tenant  of 
a  fourth-floor  front  in  a  flat  brick  building  of  trium- 
phant ugliness.  I  could  see  a  melancholy  angle  of  the 
square,  some  soot-smeared  trees  stretching  in  inky  ten- 
tacles to  a  sullen  sky,  a  soggy  garden  that  seemed 
steeped  in  despairing  contemplation  of  its  own  un- 
worthiness. 

For  Mrs.  Switcher,  my  landlady,  I  conceived  an  en- 
thusiastic dislike.  A  sour,  grinding  woman  who  re- 
minded me  of  a  meat-axe,  I  christened  her  Rain-in-the- 
Facc  in  further  resemblance  of  a  celebrated  Indian 
Chief.  But  if  I  found  in  her  no  source  of  a  sympathetic 
inspiration,  in  the  near-by  Reading-room  of  the  Brit- 
ish Museum  there  certainly  was.  In  that  studious  calm, 
under  battalions  of  books  secure  in  their  circles  of  im- 
mortality, I  was  profoundly  happy.  Often  I  would 
pause  to  study  those  about  me,  the  spectacled  men,  the 
literary  hack  with  the  shiny  coat-sleeve  of  the  Reading- 
room  habitu^,  the  women  whose  bilious  complexions  and 
poky  skirts  suggested  the  league  of  desperate  spinster- 
hood. 

A  thousand  ghosts  haunted  that  great  dome.  It 
was  a  mosaic  of  faces  of  dead  and  gone  authors,  wist- 
fully watching  to  see  if  you  would  read  their  books. 
And  if  you  did,  how  they  hovered  down  from  the 
greynoss  and  smiled  sweetly  on  you ;  other  ghosts  there 
were  too,  ghosts  of  the  famous  ones  who  had  bent  over 
these  very  benches,  who  had  delved  into  that  mine  of 
thought  just  as  I  was  delving.     Here  they  had  toiled 


A  BOTTLE  OF  INK 


65 


and  triumphed,  even  as  I  ivould  toil  and  triumph. 
Spurred  and  exalted,  under  that  great  dome  where  the 
onlv  sound  seemed  to  be  the  whirr  of  busy  brains,  I 
spent  hours  of  rarest  rapture. 

To  the  solitary  the  spirits  whisper.  Ideas  came  to 
uie  at  this  time  in  a  bewildering  swarm,  and  often  I 
regretted  some  fancy  lost,  some  subtlety  unset  to 
words.  So  by  book-browsing,  by  curious  roaming,  by 
l)rooding  thought,  my  mental  life  extend'?d  its  horizons. 
Yet  knowing  no  one,  speaking  to  no  one,  living  so 
much  within  myself,  each  day  became  more  dreamlike 
and  unreal.  There  were  times  when  1  almost  doubted 
my  own  identity,  times  when,  if  you  had  assured  mc 
I  was  John  Smith,  I  would  have  been  inclined  to  agree 
with  you. 

With  positive  joy  I  watched  my  money  filter  away. 
"  Good !  "  I  reflected.  "  I  shall  soon  be  penniless,  re- 
duced to  eating  stale  crusts  and  sleeping  on  the  iron 
benches  of  the  Embankment.  Who  can  divine  the  daz- 
zling possibilities  of  vicissitude?  All  my  life  I  have 
battled  with  prosperity;  now,  at  last,  I  shall  achieve 
adversity.  I  will  descend  the  ladder  of  success.  I  will 
rub  shoulders  with  Destitution.  I  may  even  be  intro- 
duced to  Brother  Despair." 

Enthusiasm  glowed  in  me  at  the  thought,  and  ab- 
sorbed in  those  ambitious  dreams  I  cried:  "Thank 
God  for  life's  depths,  that  we  may  have  the  glory  of 
outclimbing  them." 

And  here  be  it  said,  we  make  a  mistake  when  we 
pity  the  poor.  It  is  the  rich  we  should  pity,  those 
who  have  never  known  the  joy  of  poverty,  the  ecstasy 
of  squeezing  the  dollar  to  the  last  cent.  How  good 
the  plain  fare  looks  to  our  hunger!     How  sweet  the 


66 


THE  pret?:nder 


rest  after  toil!  How  exciting  the  uncertainty  of  the 
next  day's  supper !  How  glorious  the  unexpected  wind- 
fall of  a  few  coppers!  Was  ever  nectar  so  exquisite 
as  that  cup  of  coffee  quaffed  at  the  stall  on  the  Embank- 
ment after  a  night  spent  on  those  excruciating  benches* 
Never  to  have  been  desperately  poor  —  ah !  that  is 
never  to  have  lived. 

My  shibboleth  at  this  time  was  a  large  bottle  of  ink 
which  I  bought  and  placed  on  my  mantelpiece. 
Ihrough  a  haze  of  cigarette  smoke  I  would  address 
it  whimsically: 

.  1?^'  ^,'^q"i«it^  fluid,  what  magic  words  are  hidden 
m  thine  ebon  heart!  What  lover's  raptures  and  what 
gems  of  thought!  Let  others  turn  to  dusty  ledgers 
your  celestial  stream,  to  bills  of  lading  and  to  dull 
notorial  deeds;  to  me  you  are  the  poet's  dream,  the 
freaksome  fancy  of  the  essayist,  the  stuff  that  shapes 
itself  ,n  precious  prose.  In  you,  oh  most  divine  elixir, 
fame  and  fortune  are  dissolved.  In  you,  enchanted 
liquid,  strange  stories  simmer,  and  bright  humour  bub- 
bles up  Oh,  magical  bottle,  of  whom  I  will  make 
life  and  l.ght,  gold  and  jewels,  laughter  and  tears, 
thrill  to  your  dusky  heart  with  the  sense  of  immor- 
tality ! " 

It  was  while  suneying  the  garbr.ge  heap  in  the  rear 
of  Mrs.  Switcher's  premises  that  there  came  to  me  the 
Idea  of  a  short  story,  to  be  called  The  Microbe. 

Through  reading  an  article  in  a  magazine  Mr  Per- 
kins, a  middle-aged  clerk  in  a  dry-salter»8  warehouse, 
becomes  interested  in  the  Germ  Theory.  Half-con- 
temptuous at  first,  he  begins  to  make  a  study  of  it,  and 
«oon  ,s  quite  fascinated.  Being  of  a  high-strung,  im- 
aginative nature,  the  thing  gets  on  his  nenes,  and  he 


A  BOTTLE  OF  INK 


l)pgin!«  to  think  germs,  to  dream  germs,  to  dread  germs 
every  moment  of  his  life.  He  'ears  them  in  the  air  he 
breathes,  in  the  food  he  eats,  even  on  the  library  books 
that  tell  him  all  about  them. 

Mr.  Perkins  becomes  obsessed.  Ho  refuses  to  kiss 
the  somewhat  overblown  rose  of  his  affections,  to  enter 
a  train,  an  omnibus,  a  theatre.  He  analyses  his  food, 
sU'riiises  his  water,  disinfects  his  room  daily,  till  his 
landlady  gives  him  notice.  Finally  he  can  no  longer 
breathe  the  air  of  a  microbo-infected  office,  and  he  re- 
signs the  situation  he  has  .leld  for  twenty  years  to 
become  a  tramp.  Yet  even  here,  in  the  wind  on  the 
heath,  on  the  hill's  top,  by  the  yeasty  sea,  there  is  no 
peace  for  him.  He  Lioods,  he  fasts,  he  becomes  a  mono- 
maniac. Then  he  thLks  of  the  germs  in  his  own  body, 
of  the  good  microbes  and  the  naughty  microbes  fight- 
ing their  vendetta  from  birth  to  death,  his  very  blood 
their  battleground. 

No  longer  can  he  bear  it.  He  realises  the  impossi- 
bility of  escape.  He  himself  is  a  little  world,  a  civil 
war  of  microbes.  How  he  hates  them!  Yet  there  re- 
mains to  him  his  revenge.  Ha !  Ha !  He  has  the  power 
to  destroy  that  world.  So  beggared,  broken,  des- 
perate, he  returns  to  London,  and  with  a  wild  shriek  of 
joy  he  throws  himself  from  the  Tower  Bridge. 

Yea,  even  in  the  end  he  has  been  destroyed  by  a 
microbe,  the  most  deadly  of  all,  the  terrible  Microbe 
called  Fear. 

One  morning,  dreamily  incubating  my  story,  I  hap- 
pened to  glance  out  of  my  window.  I  was  gazing  ab- 
sently on  my  comer  of  the  lugubrious  square  when 
a  little  figure  of  a  girl  came  into  view.  She  wore  a 
grey  mantle,  and  her  face  was  like  a  splash  of  white. 


(JS 


TlIK  I'KETENDER 


Walking  with  a  quick,  dctcnnincd  step,  in  a  moment 
slit'  hud  di.suppcHri'd. 

In  about  five  minutes  I  happened  to  look  up  again. 
There  was  the  same  slim  figure  rounding  the  corner, 
to  again  disappear. 

"Something  automatic  about  this,'*  I  said;  "it's 
getting  interesting."  So,  taking  out  my  watch,  I 
judged  the  time,  and  in  another  five  minutes  I  looked 
up.  Yes,  there  was  my  girl  in  grey  walking  with  the 
same  purposeful  stride. 

"This  is  getting  monotonous,"  I  obsened,  after  I 
had  seen  her  appear  antl  disappear  a  few  more  times. 
"  Such  p'-rsistent  pedestrianism  destroys  my  powers 
of  concentration.  Let  me  then  sally  forth  and  see 
what  this  mysterious  young  female  is  celebrating. 
Perhaps  if  I  stare  at  her  hard  enough  she  will  choose 
either  Russell  or  Uloomsbury  Square  for  her  consti- 
tutional, and  not  distract  a  poor,  hard-working  story- 
grinder  at  his  labours." 

But  when  I  got  outside  I  found  she  had  gone,  so  I 
decided  to  seek  my  lielovod  Reading  Room  and  look 
up  some  articles  on  microbes. 


(  HAPTKU  Mil 

TUF,  C.IUL  WHO  I.OOKKD  INTKRESTIN'G 

Aftkr  a  hnrd  skirmish  with  the  cntalogiie  of  the  Read- 
ing Kooni,  which,  with  reference  and  counter-reference, 
(ItHed  me  stubbornly,  yet  finally  yielded  to  my  assault, 
I  found  myself,  three  hours  later,  seated  in  an  A.B.C. 
restaurant  in  Southampton  Row. 

From  motives  of  economy  I  had  given  up  eating  din- 
ners. Breakfast  and  a  meat  luncli  were  now  my  sole 
fortifying  occasions,  and  of  the  latter  this  A.B.C.  was 
oftenest  the  scene.  I  liked  its  friendly  fires,  its  red 
plush  chairs,  its  air  of  thrift  and  cheer.  Behold  me, 
then,  a  studiously  shabby  young  man,  eating  a  shilling 
lunch  and  wearing  as  a  s^nnbol  of  my  ser\-itudc  a  cel- 
luloid collar.  Little  would  you  have  dreamed  that  but 
two  short  months  before  I  had  been  toying  with  terra- 
pin in  the  gold  room  of  Delmonico's. 

But  such  dramatic  contrasts  charm  me,  and  I  was 
placidly  engaged  in  the  excavation  of  a  Melton  Mow- 
bray pie,  when  a  girl  in  grey  took  a  place  at  the  next 
table.  Her  long  mantle  was  rather  the  worse  for  wear, 
her  hat  a  cheap  straw.  Her  small  hands  were  encased 
in  cotton  gloves,  and  lier  feet  in  foreign-looking  shoes. 

"Painfully  poor,"  I  thought,  "yet  evidently  a 
worshipper  of  the  goddess  Comme-U-faut."  Then  — 
"^^Tiy.  surely  I  know  her."  Surely  it  is  my  myste- 
rious female  of  the  matutinal  Marathon." 

With  timid  hesitation  she  ordered  a  bun  and  milk. 
How  interesting  her  voice  wos!     It  had  a  bell-like  qual- 

69 


70 


THE  PRETENDER 


ity  the  more  marked  because  the  spoke  with  a  strong 
inflection,  nnd  un  odd  precision  of  accent.  A  voice 
with  colour,  I  thought ;  violet ;  ^es,  she  had  a  violet 
voice. 

But  I  had  not  seen  her  face,  only  beneath  her  Mw 
straw  hat  her  hair  of  a  gloamy  brown,  very  finj  of 
texture  and  so  thick  as  to  seem  almost  black.  It  was 
brought  round  in  a  coiled  braid  over  each  ear,  and, 
where  it  parted  at  the  back,  showed  a  neck  of  ivory 
whiteness.  Somewhat  curiously  I  wished  she  would 
turn  her  head. 

Then,  as  if  to  please  me,  she  did  so,  and  what  I  saw 
was  almost  the  face  of  a  child,  so  small  and  delicate  of 
feature  was  it.  It  was  almost  colourless,  of  a  pure 
pallor  that  contrasted  with  the  rich  darkness  of  her 
hair.  The  mouth  was  small  and  wistfully  sweet,  the 
chin  rather  long  and  fine,  the  cheeks  faintly  hollowed. 
Her  brow,  I  noted,  was  broad  and  full,  her  eyebrows 
frank  and  well-defined.  But  it  was  the  eyes  themselves 
that  arrested  me.  They  were  set  far  apart  nnd  of  a 
rare  and  faultless  sea-blue.  Such  eyes  in  a  woman  of 
real  beauty  would  have  been  pools  of  love  for  many  a 
fool  to  drown  in,  and  even  in  this  fragile,  shrinking  girl 
they  were  haunting,  thrilling  eyes.  For  the  rest,  she 
was  small,  slender,  sad-looking,  and  tired,  yes,  tired,  as 
if  she  wanted  to  rest  and  rest  and  rest. 

*'  A  consumptive  type,"  I  thought  irritably.  "  Seems 
quite  worn  out.  Why  does  she  persist  in  that  pedes- 
trian foolishness  —  that's  what  I  want  to  know.**'* 

I  watched  her  as  she  ate  her  bun,  and  when  she  rose 
I  ruse  too.  She  payed  out  of  a  worn  little  purse,  a 
plethoric  purse,  but,  alas !  its  fulness  was  of  copper. 
Down   \Vol)urn   Street   she   disappeared,   and   I   looked 


THE  GIRL  WHO  LOOKED  INTERESTING     71 


after  her  with  snnie  concern.  A  gentle,  shrinking 
crtature,  puthet      'iy  afraid  of  life. 

"  (lod   help  li  I   said,  **  in   this   ruthless  city,  if 

she  has  neither  1  ..i,ds  nor  money."  I  decided  I  would 
write  a  story  arounu  her,  a  story  of  struggle  and  temp- 
tation. Yes,  I  would  call  it  The  Girl  Who  Looked  In- 
teresiing. 

That  night  I  thought  a  good  deal  about  my  girl 
and  my  story,  hut  next  morning  u  distraction  occurred. 
London  revealed  itself  in  the  glory  of  a  fog.  At  last  I 
was  exultant.  Here  was  the  city  I  had  come  so  far 
to  see.  For  the  squat  buildings  seemed  to  take  on 
dignity  and  height.  Through  the  mellow  haze  they 
loomed  as  vaguely  as  the  domiciles  of  a  dream.  The 
streets  were  corridors  of  mystery,  and  alone,  abysmally 
alone,  I  seemed  to  be  in  some  city  of  fantasy  and  fear. 

But  the  river  —  there  the  fog  achieved  its  ghostliest 
effects.  As  I  wandered  down  the  clammy  embank- 
ment, cloud-built  bridges  emerged  ethereally,  and  the 
flat  barges  were  masses  of  mysterious  shadow.  St. 
Stephen's  was  a  spectral  suggestion,  and  Whitehall  a 
delicate  silver-point  etching.  I  thanked  the  gods  for 
this  evasive  and  intangible  London,  half-hidden,  half- 
revealed  in  its  vesture  of  all-mystifying  fog. 

Well,  I  was  tired  at  last,  and  I  turned  to  go  home. 
But  I  must  have  missed  my  w-ay,  for  I  found  myself  in 
a  long  dim  street,  which  I  judged  by  its  furniture- 
fringed  pavement  to  be  Tottenham  Court  Road.  Filled 
with  a  pleasant  sense  of  adventure,  I  kept  on  till  I 
came  to  what  must  have  been  Hampstead  Road. 
There  my  eyes  were  drawn  to  a  large  flamboyant  paint- 
ing above  the  window  of  a  shop  in  a  side-street.  Draw- 
ing near,  I  read  in  flaring  letters  the  following: 


72 


THK  PRETENDER 


EXHiniTIOX 

Amazikg  !     Am  i.-sino  !     T'NiQrE ! 

O'FLATIIER'S  EDUCATED  FLEAS 

As   ptrformed   with   tremendous   success   before 
nil   the  Crowned   Heads  of   Europe  and   the 
Potentates   of   Asia.     For   a    limited 
time   Professor  O'tlather   will 
give  the  people  of  London 
the  opportunity  of  see- 
ing this  extraordin- 
ary exhibition. 
Entertaining! 
Instructive ! 
Original ! 
Come 
■ind 
See 

THE  SCIENTIFIC  MARVEL  OF  THE  CENTURY! 

Tlie  marvellous   insects   that  have  all  the 
Intelligence  of  human  beings. 

Admission,  Sixpence.  Children   Half-price, 

A  large  canvas  showed  a  number  of  insects,  viva- 
ciously engaged  in  duelling,  dancing,  drawing  water 
from  wells,  and  so  on.  Watching  thenj  with  beaming 
rapture  was  a  distinguished  audience,  including  the 
Czar  of  Russia,  the  Emperor  William,  Li  Hung  Chang, 
the  Shah  of  Persia,  and  I\Ir.   Roosevelt. 

I  was  turning  away  when  a  big,  ugly  individual  ap- 


TIIF,  (JIHL  WHO  I.OOKKI)  I\TERF.STI\(i      7JJ 

pi  .lied  in  the  doorway.  Ho  was  a  liea\ y-broathing 
man  with  a  mouth  like  a  rodfish,  and  hlomisliot  eyes 
that  pteied  througli  pouchy  ^lits.  He  had  a  hlotched, 
{iVi-nsy  face  that  hung  ddwn  in  dewlaps.  From  unrier 
a  Stetson  hat  his  stringy,  hrindled  hair  streamed  over 
file  collar  of  his  fur-lined  coat.  On  his  gruhhv  hand 
in  oft'-colour  diamond,  hig  as  a  pea,  tried  to  out- 
sparkle  another  in  the  dirty  bosom  of  his  shirt.  He 
riik((I  of  pomatinn,  and  his  teeth  looked  as  if  thcv 
had  been  cleaned  with  a  towel.  No  mistaking  the  born 
-howman  of  the  Bowery  breed.  Moved  by  a  sudden 
idea,  I  gracefully  addressed  him: 

"  Professor  OTIather,    I    presume .*  " 

The  impresario  looked  at  mo  with  lack-lustre  eye 
He  transferred  a  chew  of  tobacco  from  one  check  to 
the  other:  then  he  spat  with  nmrvellous  precision  on  a 
jjassing  dog.      Finallv  he  admitted  roluetantlv: 

"Yep!     That's   me." 

"  Panlon  me,  Professor,  but  Tm  a  newspaper  man. 
I  represent  the  Dailtf  Dredyer,  with  which,  of  course, 
you  are  familiar.  I  have  been  specially  commissioned 
hv  my  journal  to  write  up  your  exhibition.  Can  you 
favour  me  with  a  brief  interview?  " 

.\t  the  magic  word  "  newspaper  "  his  manner  changed. 
He  extended  a  hand  like  a  small  ham. 

'•  Right  you  are,  mister.  Always  glad  to  see  the 
iioospaper  boys." 

He  ushered  me  into  the  shop,  and,  switching  on  a 
liffht.  bellowed  in  a  voice  of  brass,  "Jinny!"  From 
hihind  a  crinuion  curtain  appeared  a  little  Jap  girl 
in  a  green  k-mono. 

"Faithful  little  devil!"  said  the  Professor.  "Met 
\.-  in  a  Yokerhammer  joint,  and  fetched  *er  along  for 


74 


THE  PRETENDER 


IS 


the  sake  of  thf  kIjow.     Jinny,  uncover  tlje  stock.     Th 
gcn'lman's  a  hintervooer." 

With  eager  pride  the  girl  oIh  yed.  From  a  glass 
case  in  the  centre  of  the  room  sl»e  removed  a  coverinfj. 
The  case  was  divided  into  sections,  in  which  were  a 
number  of  suggestive  shapes,  supinely  quiescent. 

"  We  turn  'em  over,"  O'Flather  explained,  '*  when 
they  ain't  working,  so's  they  won't  use  up  all  their  force. 
We  need  it  in  the  husiness." 

Then  Jinny,  with  the  delicacy  of  a  lover,  procenK-d 
to  put  each  through  its  performance. 

"  That  there's  Barthsheber  at  tin-  will,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, pointing  with  a  fat  forefinger  to  a  black  speck 
that  was  frantically  raising  and  lowering  a  string  of 
1'  jckets  on  an  endless  chain. 

*'  Tliem's  the  dooelists,"  he  went  on,  indicating  two 
who,  rearing  on  their  hind  legs,  clashed  tiny  swords 
with  all  the  fire  and  fury  of  Macbeth  and  Macduff. 

"  Here  we  have  the  original  Tango  Team,"  he  con- 
tinued, showing  a  pair  who  went  through  the  motions 
of  the  dance  in  time  to  a  tiny  musical  box. 

Then,  with  pardonable  pride,  he  drew  my  attention 
to  a  separate  case  containing  a  well-made  model  of  a 
little  farm.  "  Tliere !  "  he  said,  extending  his  grubby 
hand,  "  all  run  by  the  little  critters."  And,  sure 
enough,  there  were  active  little  insects  drawing  ploughs 
up  and  down  green  furrows ;  others  were  hoeing  with 
tremendous  energy;  others  mowing  with  equal  enthu- 
siasm. Here,  too,  was  a  miniature  threshing  machine, 
turned  by  four  black  specks  lying  on  their  backs, 
with  other  frantic  black  specks  feeding  it,  and  an  extra 
strenuous  one  forking  away  tlu'  straw. 

As  I  expressed  my  admiration  of  their  intlustrv,  the 


THE  GIRL  WHO  LOOKED  INTERESTLNG      75 

Professor,  with  growing  guato,  dilated  on  tl»e  clever- 
ness of  his  pets,  and  put  them  through  their  paces. 
There  was  a  funeral,  a  chariot  race,  a  merry-go-round, 
and  some  other  contrivances  no  less  ingenious.  Lastly 
he  showed  me  a  glass  case  containing  many  black 
specks. 

'*  Raw  material.  Them's  the  wild  ones  I  keep  to 
take  the  place  of  the  tame  ones  that  dies.  At  first  I 
have  to  put  'em  in  a  bit  of  a  glass  box  like  a  pill  box, 
and  turning  on  an  axis  same's  a  little  treadmill.  That's 
to  break  'em  of  the  jumping  habit.  Every  time  they 
jump  —  biiig!  they  hit  the  glass  hard,  so  by  and  by 
they  quit.  But  they  have  to  keep  a-moving,  because 
the  box  keeps  going  round.  In  a  few  days  they're 
Ijroke  into  walk  all  right." 

"  Most  ingenious !  " 

"  All  my  own  notion.  Since  I  started  in  the  business, 
many's  the  hundred  I've  broke  in.  I  guess  I  know 
more  about  the  little  critters  than  any  man  living." 

It  was  with  a  view  to  tap  a  little  of  this  knowledge 
ihat  I  invited  the  Professor  to  a  near-by  pub.,  and 
there,  under  the  influence  of  sympathetic  admiration 
and  hot  gin,  he  expanded  confidentially. 

"  All  of  them  insects  you  saw,"  he  informed  me, 
"  comes  from  Japan.  They  grow  bigger  over  there, 
and  more  intelligent.  I've  experimented  with  nigh 
every  kind,  but  them  Jap  ones  is  the  best.  And  here 
I  want  to  say  that  it's  only  the  females  is  any  good. 
The  males  is  mulish.  Besides  they're  smaller  and 
weaker,  and  not  so  intelligent.  Funny  that,  ain't  it  ? 
That's  an  argyment  for  Woman's  Suffrage.  No,  the 
males  is  no  good." 

"  And  how  do  you  train  them.  Professor?  "  I  queried. 


;« 


THK  i»ri:ti:ni)er 


"  Well,  first  of  all  vou'm-  got  to  hitch  %in  up,  got 
to  g«''c  a  silk  thread  round  thrir  waists.  That's  a 
mighty  ticklish  oppyrution,  hut  Jinny's  good  at  it. 
Vou  see,  they're  so  slick  ctniint  won't  stick  to  'em, 
and  if  you  was  to  use  wax  it  kills  'em  in  a  day  or  two. 
So  we've  got  to  get  a  silk  loop  round  their  middle, 
and  cement  a  fine  hristle  to  it.  Once  we  have  'cm 
harnessed  up  we  hegin  to  train  'em.  That's  just  a 
matter  of  patience.  Some's  aptcr  than  others.  Karth- 
shether  there  was  very  quick.  In  a  few  days  she  was 
on  to  her  job." 

"And  how  long  do  they  live.^*' 

"Oh,  about  a  year,  but  I've  had  'em  for  nigh  two. 
They  got  mighty  weak  towards  the  last  though.  You 
know,  a  female  in  prime  condition  can  draw  twelve 
hundred  tinies  her  own  weight." 

"Wonderful!     And  what  do  they  eat.>" 

"Well,"  said  O'Flathcr,  thoughtfully,  "a  performer 
can  go  about  four  days  without  eating,  but  we  feed  'em 
every  day.  Jinny  used  to  do  it.  She  loves  'em.  But 
it's  hard  on  a  person.  I've  got  a  young  woman  en- 
gaged just  now." 

"  A  young  woman !  " 

"  Yep,  but  she's  a  poor  weak  bit  of  a  thing.  I  don't 
think  as  she'll  stick  it  much  longer.  You  see,  there's 
lots  of  folks  the  little  devils  won't  take  to  —  me,  for 
instance.  Blood's  too  bitter,  I  guess.  They  seem  to 
pnfer  the  women,  too.  Then  again,  they  feed  better 
if  the  body's  hot,  specially  if  the  skin's  perspiring." 

"How  very  interesting!"  I  said  absently.  Then 
suddenly  the  reason  of  it  came  to  me.  The  insects  had 
no  intelligence,  no  consciously  directed  power.  The 
njotive    that    inspired    them    was  —  Fear.     Their    ex- 


THE  GIHL  WHO  LOOKED  INTERESTINCi 


« t 


traordinary  demonstrations  were  caused  hy  their  des- 
perate efforts  to  escape.  It  was  fear  that  drew  the 
coaches  and  tlie  gun-carriages;  fear  that  made  those 
kicking  on  their  backs  turn  the  threshing  mills;  fear  in 
the  fight  to  free  themselves  from  the  stakes  to  which 
Miey  Wire  chained  that  made  the  duellists  clash  their 
.'.ihres,  und  the  Uathshebas  work  at  their  wells.  It  was 
even  fear  that  made  those  two  lashed  side  by  side,  and 
head  to  tail,  run  round  in  opposite  directions  to  gi-t 
away  from  each  other,  till  they  gave  the  illusion  of  a 
waltz.  Fear  as  a  niotivi.-  power  I  This  exhibition,  out- 
wardly so  amusing,  was  really  all  suffering  and  despair, 
struggle  born  of  fear,  pleasure  gained  at  the  cost  of 
pain.  Exquisitely  ludicrous ;  yet  how  like  life,  how 
like  life! 

"  Professor  O'Flather,"  I  said  gravely,  "  you  have 
taught  me  a  lesson  I  will  never  forget." 

"  Naw,"  said  the  Professor  modestly,  "  it  ain't 
nuthin'.  Hope  you  get  a  few  dollars  out  of  it.  Mind 
you  give  the  show  a  boost." 

We  were  standing  by  the  doorway  of  the  exhibition 
when  a  slim  figure  in  grey  brushed  past  us  and  entered. 
I  started,  I  could  not  be  mistaken  —  it  was  the  heroine 
of  my  story  The  Girl  UVio  Looked  Interesting. 

"Who's  that,  Professor  —  the  girl  who's  just  gone 


ui." 


?  '♦ 


*'  That,"  said  O'Flather,  with  a  shrug,  "  why,  that's 
the  young  woman  wot  feeds  the  fleas." 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  CHEWING  Gl'M  OF  DF.STIN'Y 

ALLrBEi)  by  a  sign:  "A  Cut  off  the  Joint  for  Six- 
penct',"  I  lunched  in  a  little  euting-hou.sc  off  Totten- 
ham Court  Road.  I  was  at  the  tapioca  pudding  stag(> 
of  the  repast,  and  in  a  moot!  of  singular  complacency. 

"  Six  weeks  have  gone,"  I  pondered.  *'  I  have  spent 
nearly  a  third  of  the  sum  I  realised  from  the  sale  of 
Guinivere's  engagement  ring.  In  my  ambition  to  fail 
in  the  world,  already  I  have  accomplished  much.  Be- 
hold !  my  boots  arc  cracked  across  the  uppers.  Re- 
gard !  the  suggestive  glossiness  of  my  coat-sleeves. 
Observe !  the  bluey  brilliancy  of  my  celluloid  collar.  Oh, 
mighty  Mammon,  chain  me  to  thine  oar!  Grind  me, 
Oppression,  'neath  thy  ruthless  heel !  Minions  of  Mo- 
nopoly, hound  me  to  despair !  —  not  all  your  powers 
combined  in  fell  intent  can  so  inspire  me  with  the  spirit 
of  Democracy  as  can  the  sticky  feel  of  this  celluloid  col- 
lar around  my  neck  !  " 

With  which  sentiment  I  lit  a  cigarette,  and  took  from 
mv  pocket  a  copy  of  the  Gotham  Gazette.  I  had  seen 
it  looking  very  foreign  and  forlorn  in  a  news-agents, 
and  had  bought  it  out  of  pity  for  its  loneliness.  I  was 
glancing  through  it  when  a  name  seemed  to  leap  at 
me,  and  I  felt  my  heart  stand  still.     I  read: 

"  Yesterday  afternoon  patrician  Fifth  Avenue  was  the 
scene  of  a  saddening  incident.  It  was  almost  opposite 
Tiffanv's,   and    the    autos    were   passing   in   •   continuous 

78 


THE  CHEWING  GUM  OF  DESTINY       79 

strrnm.  At  this  time  and  this  place  it  is  almost  as  difficult 
to  cross  the  Rubicon  as  to  cross  the  Avenue;  yet,  taking 
advantage  of  a  lull  in  the  traffic,  a  well-dressed  man — 
who  has  since  been  identified  as  Charles  Fitxbarrington, 
an  cx-army  officer  resident  in  flarlcm  —  was  observed 
to  make  the  daring  attempt.  Half  way  over  he  was  seen 
t«»  stumble,  and  come  to  the  ground.  Those  who  saw  the 
r.ish  act  held  their  breaths,  and  when  the  nearest  specta- 
tors could  reach  him  to  rescue  him  from  his  perilous  posi- 
tion, they  found  to  their  surprise  that  the  man  was 
dead.  .  .  ." 

I  dropped  the  paper  with  a  groan.  Captain  Fitz- 
Imrrington  dead!  Mrs.  Fitz  free!  My  promise  to 
marry  her!     The  terrible  twins!     Oh,  God.  .  .  . 

"Alas!"  I  cried,  "I  am  undone!  —  betrayed  by  an 
incurably  romantic  disposition;  asphyxiated  in  the  cf- 
fenesccnce  of  my  own  folly ;  ignominiously  undone !  " 

As  if  it  were  yesterday,  I  remembered  the  faded 
apartment  in  Harlem,  my  protests  of  undying  devo- 
tion, the  words  that  now  seemed  written  in  remorse- 
less flame: 

"  //  anything  should  happen  to  him,  if  by  any  chance 
Kr  should  find  oursehes  free,  send  for  me,  and  I'll  come 
to  you,  exen  though  the  vcoHd  lie  between  us.  By  my 
life,  by  my  honour,  I  steear  it" 

Had  I  really  uttered  that  awful  rot?  Oh,  what  a 
fool  I'd  been !  But  it  was  too  late  now.  I  must  make 
the  best  of  it.  Never  yet  have  I  gone  back  on  my 
«-ord  (though  I  have  put  some  very  poetic  construc- 
tions on  it).  But  here  there  was  no  chance  of  evasion. 
She  would  certainly  expect  me  to  marry  her.  Fare- 
well,   ambitious    dreams    of    struggle    and    privation! 


^ 


80 


Tin:  I'HKTKNUKU 


Farewell,  O  glorious  iiukpciuient  poverty!  Farewell, 
my  scheims  aiul  dreams!  Bulieniiu,  adventure,  all!  — 
and  for  what.'  For  an  elderly  woman  for  whom  I  did 
not  fare  a  rap,  a  faded  woman  with  a  ready-made  fam- 
ily to  boot.  Truly  life  is  one  confounded  scrape  after 
another. 

That  nifjht  I  dreamed  of  the  terrible  twins.  I  was  a 
pirate  ship,  Ronnie,  the  captain,  stood  on  my  chest, 
while  Lonnie,  a  naval  lieutenant,  tried  to  board  me. 
Then  they  invented  a  new  ganje,  based  on  the  Mi<l- 
ni^ht  Hide  of  Paul  Hevere.  It  was  tremendously  ex- 
citing. They  both  got  quite  worked  up  over  it.  So 
did  I  —  only  more  so.  I  was  the  horse.  I  awoke, 
bathed  in  perspiration,  and  liissing  through  n>v  clenched 
teeth:     "Never!     Never!" 

But  really  it  seemed  as  if  I  must  do  something: 
so  next  day  I  began  three  different  letters  to  Mrs. 
Fitz.  I  was  sorely  distracted.  My  work  was  suffering. 
There  was  the  unfinislud  manuscript  of  The  Microbe 
staring  reproachfully  at  me.  Then  to  crown  all,  just 
as  I  was  sitting  down  in  the  early  evening  with  grim 
determination  to  finish  the  letter,  suddenly  I  was  as- 
sailed by  a   Craving. 

Indulgent  Reader,  up  till  now  I  have  concealed  it, 
but  I  must  confess  at  last.  I  have  one  besetting  weak- 
ness, a  weakness  that  amounts  to  a  vice.  I  am  ashamed 
of  it.  Often  I  have  tried  to  wean  myself  of  it;  often 
cursed  the  heredity  that  imposed  it  on  mc.  Opium? 
Morphine.'  Cocaine.'  Nothing  so  fashionable.  Ab- 
sinthe? Brandy?  Gin?  Nothing  so  normal.  Alas! 
let  me  wliispcr  it  in  your  ear:  I  am  a  Chewing  Gum 
Fiend ! 

So   feeling  in  my  pocket   for  the  stuff,  and  finding 


TlIK  tHKWING  GL'M  OF  DESTINY       81 


mg 


none,  I  straightway  began  to  crave  it  as  never  before. 
Thin,  knowing  there  would  be  no  peace  for  roe,  I  left 
mv  letter  and  started  desperately  forth  into  that  fog 
stifled  city. 

And  that  fog  was  now  a  FOG.  It  irked  the  lung:*, 
and  made  the  eye-balls  tingle.  Each  street  lamp  was 
a  sulphurous  blur,  each  radiant  shop-window  a  furtive 
lilotch  of  light.  It  seemed  something  solid,  something 
\  t)u  could  cut  into  slices,  and  8er>-c  between  bread  —  a 
vtry  Canienibert  cheese  of  a  fog. 

So  into  this  woolly  obscurity  I  plunged,  and  like  a 
Mackinaw  blanket  it  entangled  me  about.  Bleary 
l)()xt  s  of  light  the  tramways  crawled  along.  There  were 
toolings  of  taxis,  curses  of  cabbies,  clanging  of  bells, 
'llie  streets  were  lanes  of  mystery,  the  passers  weird 
shadows;  the  shop-windows  seemed  to  be  made  of  horn 
instead  of  glass.  Then  the  green  and  red  lights  of  a 
chemist's  semaphored  me,  seemingly  from  a  great  dis- 
tance, but  really  from  just  a  few  feet  away.  So  there 
I  bought  six  packets  of  chewing  gum,  and  started  home. 

But  at  this  point  1  found  the  fog  fuzzier  than  ever. 
I  stumbled  and  fumbled,  and  wondered  and  blundered, 
till  presently  I  found  myself  standing  before  the  great 
doors  of  a  theatre.  For  the  moment  I  was  too  dis- 
couraged to  go  further,  and  the  performance  was  about 
to  begin.  Ha!  that  v:a$  an  idea!  I  would  enter. 
Then  I  groaned  in  spirit,  for  I  saw  that  the  theatre 
was  Drury  Lane.  Sensational  melodrama!  Ah,  no! 
Better  the  cold  and  cruel  street.  But  the  fog  was  in- 
exorable. Three  times  did  I  try  to  break  through  it : 
three  times  did  it  hurl  me  back  on  the  melodramatic 
mercies  of  Drury  Lane. 

Hanging  over  the  front  of  the  gallery,  I  asked  my- 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION   TEST   CHART 

ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2 


1.0 


I.I 


;-  iiiiiM 


12.5 
2.2 

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^  APPLIED  IM/IGE     Inc 

^^.  '6^!    tost    Mg  '    S'^eet 

SVa  BocMfsler.    Ne«    vo'k         '4609       ..SA 

'-S—  !?16)    A82  -  0300  -  Phons 

^S  (''6)    288  -  5989  -  fa. 


82 


THE  PRETENDER 


self:  "Who  arc  those  hundreds  of  well-dressed  people 
who  fill  this  great  pla3hou>e?  To  all  appearance  they 
are  intelligent  beings,  jet  I  cannot  imagine  intelligent 
beings  taking  this  kind  of  thing  seriously.  .\  ,  burlesque 
it's  funny,  and  the  more  thrilling  it  gets  the  funnier 
it  is.  Yet,  except  mysdf,  no  one  seems  to  laugh. 
How  the  author  nmst  have  chuckled  over  his  fabrica- 
tion! However,  let  me  credit  him  with  one  haunting 
line,  one  memorable  sentiment,  delivered  by  the  heroine 
to  a  roar  of  applause : 

"  A  woman's  most  precious  Jowel  is  licr  pixxl  naiiif, 
And  her  brightest  crown  the  lovt-  of  her  luislmnd ! " 

Then  suddenly  a  light  flashed  on  me.  It  was  the>c 
people  who  bought  my  books;  it  was  this  sort  of 
thing  1  had  been  peddling  to  them  .so  long.  And  the\ 
liked  it.  How  they  howled  for  more!  "O  ye  god^ 
of  High  Endeavour!"  I  groaned,  "heap  not  my  sins 
of  melodrama  on  my  head." 

Conscience-stricken  I  did  not  wait  for  the  climax 
where  two  airships  grapple  in  the  sky,  under  the  guns 
of  a  "  Dreadnought,"  while  at  a  crossing  an  auto 
dashes  into  a  night  express.  I  sneaked  out  between 
the  acts,  and  sought  the  .solitude  of  the  Thames  Em- 
bankment. 

The  fog  had  cleared  now,  and  the  clock  of  St. 
Stephen's  pealed  till  I  counted  the  stroke  of  midnight. 
The  wall  of  the  Embankment  was  a  barrier  of  grime, 
the  river  a  thing  of  mystery  and  nmd.  It  was  a  grue- 
some night.  Even  the  huge  electrically-limned  High- 
landman  on  the  opposite  shore,  who  drinks  whiskey 
witii  such  enviable  capacity,  had  ceased  for  the  nonce 
his  luminous  libation^. 


THE  CHEWING  GUM  OF  DESTINY 


8J3 


A  few  human  waifs  shuffled  past  iiic,  middle-aged 
men  with  faces  pale  as  dough,  and  discouraged  mous- 
taches drooping  over  negligible  chins.  Their  clothes, 
green  with  age  and  corroded  with  mud,  seemed  to  flap 
iniptilv  on  their  meagre  frames.  A  woman  separated 
herself  from  a  mass  of  sliadow,  a  miry-skirted  scare- 
crow crowned  with  a  broken  bonnet.  With  one  red 
claw  she  clutched  a  precious  box  of  matches. 

"  For  Gord's  syke  buy  it  orf  me,  mister.  I  ain't 
niyde  tupp'nce  oipney  orl  dye." 

I  left  her  staring  at  a  silver  coin  and  testing  it  with 
her  teeth. 

Yes,  it  was  a  bad  night  to  be  out  in,  a  bad  night  to 
cower  on  these  bitter  benches  waiting  for  the  dawn. 
Yet  I  myself  was  conscious  of  the  chauffage  central  of 
peripatetic  philanthropy.  Greedily  I  panted  for  other 
opportunities  to  enjoy  the  glow  of  giving.  Then,  as  I 
was  passing  Cleopatra's  Needle,  I  heard  the  sound  of  a 
woman's  sob. 

It  came  from  the  gloomy  gruesomeness  between  the 
Needle  and  the  Thames.  I  peered  and  listened.  Below 
me  the  hideous  river  chuckled,  and  the  lamplight  fell 
lividly  on  the  whiteness  of  a  lifebuo}'  bound  to  the  wall. 
Again  I  was  sure  I  heard  that  sound  of  piteous  sobbing. 

Bravery  is  often  a  lack  of  imagination ;  I  have  imagi- 
nation plus,  so  I  hesitated.  I  had  heard  of  men  being 
lured  into  traps.  Vividly  enough  I  saw  myself  a  ca- 
daver drifting  on  the  tide,  and  I  liked  not  the  picture. 
Yet  after  all  it  takes  tremendous  courage  to  be  a  cow- 
ard, so  I  drew  nearer.  Strange!  the  sobbing,  so  low, 
so  pitiful,  had  ceased.  It  was  followed  bj'  a  silence  far 
more  sinister.  There  was  a  vibrating  agony  in  that 
^ilence,  a  hoiiiljle,  hewrt-clutching  su.'-ponst.     What  if 


84 


THE  PRETENDER 


I  were  to  go  down  tlicre  and  find  —  no  one?  Yet 
some  one  had  been,  I  would  swear ;  some  one  had  sobbed, 
and  now  —  silence. 

Slowly,  slowly  I  descended  the  steps.  There  in  the 
black  shadow  of  the  Needle  I  made  little  noise,  yet  — 
suddenly  I  began  to  wonder  if  all  the  world  could  not 
hear  the  beating  of  my  heart.  .  .  . 

Heart  be  still!  hand  be  steady!  foot  be  swift! 
There,  crouching  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  gazing  down- 
ward, ready  for  the  leap,  I  see  the  figure  of  a  woman. 
Will  she  jump  before  I  can  reach  her.''  I  hold  my 
breath.  Nearer  I  steal,  nearer,  nearer.  Then  —  one 
swift  rush  —  ah !  I  have  her. 

Even  as  I  clutched  I  felt  her  weight  sag  towards  the 
river.  Another  moment  and  I  had  dragged  her  back 
into  safety.  Tense  and  panting,  I  stared  at  her;  then, 
as  the  lamplight  fell  on  her  ghastly  face  I  uttered  a 
cry  of  amazement.  Heavens  above !  it  was  the  girl  of 
the  entomological  meal-ticket,  the  persistent  pedestrian 
of  Tavistock  Square. 

There  she  cowered,  looking  at  me  with  great,  terror 
dilated  eyes.  There  I  glowered,  regarding  her  grimly 
enough.     At  last  I  broke  the  silence. 

"Child!  Child!  why  did  you  do  it."  You've  gone 
and  spoilt  my  story.  I  should  never  have  met  you  like 
this.  It's  coincidence.  Coincidence,  you  know,  can't 
happen  in  fiction,  only  in  real  life.  You  can't  be  fic- 
tion now.     You'll  have  to  be  real  life." 

She  gazed  at  me  blankly.  Against  the  green  of  the 
wall  her  face  was  a  vague  splash  of  white. 

'*  But  that  is  a  matter  with  which  I  can  scarcely 
reproach  you.  What  I  would  like  to  know  is  why  were 
\nu  on  the  top  of  that  wall?     Having  severely  strained 


THE  CHEWING  GUM  OF  DESTINY       85 

my  right  ami,  I  conceive  I  am  entitled  to  an  explnnn- 
tion." 

She  did  not  make  an  effort  to  supply  one,  so  after 
n  pause  I  continued: 

"  No  doubt  you  will  say  it  was  because  you  were 
tired,  hungry,  homeless.  Because  you  thought  the 
river  kinder  than  the  cruel  world.  Because  you  said: 
*  Death  is  better  than  dishonour!'" 

The  girl  nodded  vaguely. 

"  Ah  no ! "  I  said  sadly ;  "  you  must  not  say  these 
things,  for  if  you  do  you  will  be  quoting  word  for  word 
the  heroine  of  my  novel  A  Shirtmaker's  Romance.  You 
will  be  guilty  of  plagiarism,  my  child;  and  what's 
worse,  a  thousand  times  worse,  you  will  be  guilty  of 
melodrama." 

She  looked  at  me  as  if  she  thought  me  mad,  then  a 
shudder  convulsed  her,  and  breaking  away,  she  dashed 
down  the  steps  to  that  black  water.  Just  in  time  I 
caught  her  and  dragged  her  back.  She  shrank  against 
the  wall,  hiding  her  face,  sobbing  violently. 

"  Please  don't,"  I  entreated.  "  If  you  want  to  give 
me  a  chance  of  doing  the  rescuing  hero  business  choose 
a  less  repellent  evening,  and  water  not  so  like  an  ani- 
mated cesspool.     Now,  listen  to  me." 

Her  sobbing  ceased.  She  was  a  silent  huddle  of  black 
against  the  wall. 

"  I  am,"  I  said,  "  a  waif  like  yourself,  homeless, 
hungry,  desperate.  I  came  to  this  city  to  win  fame 
and  fortune.  Poor  dreaming  fool !  Little  did  I  know 
that  where  one  wins  a  thousand  fail.  Well,  I've 
struggled,  starved  even  as  you've  done;  but  I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  suffer  no  more.  And  so  to-night  I've 
come  down  here,  even  as  you've  done,  to  end  it  all." 


86 


THE  PRETENDER 


I  liad  lier  listening  now.  From  the  white  mask  of 
lier  face  her  big  e^es  devoured  nie. 

"  Yes,  my  poor  girl,"  1  went  on  wearily,  "  you're 
right.  Life  for  such  as  us  is  better  ended.  Defeated, 
desperate,  what  is  there  left  for  us  but  death?  Let 
us  then  die  together ;  but  not  your  way  —  no,  that's 
too  primitive.  I  have  another,  more  fascinating,  more 
original.  Ah!  even  in  self-destruction,  behold  in  me 
the  artist.  And  I  am  going  to  allow  you  to  share  my 
doom.  Na}- !  do  not  trouble  to  express  j'our  gratitude. 
I  understand ;  it's  too  deep  for  words.  And  now,  just 
excuse  me  one  moment :  I  will  prepare." 

With  that  I  went  over  to  the  base  of  the  Needle 
and  taking  from  my  pocket  the  five  remaining  packets 
of  chewing  gum,  I  tore  the  paper  from  them.  Then 
with  the  large  piece  I  had  been  masticating,  I  welded 
them  into  a  solid  stick  about  six  inches  long.  Eagerly 
I  returned  to  her. 

"There!"  I  cried  triumphantly.  "Do  you  know 
what  this  grey  stick  is?  But  why  should  you?  Well, 
let  me  tell  you.  This  dull,  sugary-looking  stuff  is  dyna- 
mite, dynamite  in  its  most  concentrated  form.  This  is 
a  stick  of  the  terrific  Pepsixite.  It  has  moved  more 
than  any  explosive  known.     Now  do  you  understand?  " 

Her  eyes  were  rivettcd  on  the  little  grey  stick. 

*'  Ah,  well  ma}'  you  shudder,  girl !  There's  enough 
in  this  tiny  piece  to  blow  a  score  of  us  to  atoms,  to 
bring  this  mighty  monument  careening  down,  to  make 
the  embankment  look  like  an  excavation  for  the  under- 
ground railway.     Oh,  is  it  not  glorious?     Pepsinite!" 

Still  looking  at  it  as  if  fascinated,  she  made  a  move- 
ment of  utter  alarm. 

"  Just  think  of  it,"  I  whispered  gloatingly ;  "  in  two 


THE  CHEWING  GUM  OF  DESTINY       87 


more  minutes  we  shall  be  launched  into  ctornitj*.  Does 
that  not  thrill  you  with  rapture?  And  think  of  our 
revenge!  Here  with  our  death  we  will  destroy  their 
monument,  hard  as  their  hearts,  black  as  their  selfish- 
ness, sharp  as  their  scorn.  It,  too,  will  be  blown  to 
pieces." 

She  looked  up  at  the  black  column  almost  as  if  she 
were  sorrj'  for  it.     I  laughed  harshly. 

*'  Ves,  I  know.  You  do  not  hate  the  Needle,  but 
just  think  of  the  people  who  are  so  proud  of  it,  the 
devils  who  have  goaded  us  to  this.  At  first  I  thought 
that  with  my  death  I  would  destroy  their  Albert  Me- 
morial, and  so  break  their  philistine  hearts.  But  that 
would  have  taken  so  much  pepsinite,  and  I  have  only 
this  pitiful  piece.     So  it  had  to  be  the  Needle." 

Again  she  seemed  almost  to  regret  its  impending 
doom. 

"  And  now,"  I  cried,  "  the  time  has  come.  Oh,  curse 
you,  curse  you,  vast  vain-glorious  city !  Under  the 
Upas  window  of  your  smoke  what  dreams  have  withered, 
what  idols  turned  to  clay !  How  many  hearts  of  splen- 
did pride  have  failed  and  fallen!  How  many  poets 
cursed  thy  publishers  and  died!  Oh  heedless,  heartless 
London ! " 

With  a  gesture  full  of  noble  scorn  I  shook  my  fist  in 
tlie  direction  of  the  Savoy  Hotel.  Then  I  changed  to 
another  key. 

"  But  no,  let  me  not  curse  v'ou,  great  city !  Here  at 
the  gateway  of  death  let  me  envisage  you  again,  and 
from  the  depths  of  the  heart  you  have  broken  say  to 
you  sadly :  '  London,  ruthless,  splendid  London,  I  for- 
give !  ♦ " 

My  hand  quivered  as  I  laid  the  grey  stick  at  the 


88 


THE  PRETENDER 


base  of  the  monument ;  my  hand  trembled  as  I  planted 
a  large  wax  match  in  it;  mj  hand  positively  shook 
as  I  struck  another  match  and  applied  a  light  to  the 
upright  one.  With  eyes  dilated  I  stared  at  the  tiny 
flickering  flame,  and  at  that  moment,  so  worked  up 
was  I,  I  will  swear  I  thought  I  was  looking  at  the  very 
flame  of  death. 

"  Come  closer,  closer  girl,"  I  gasped.  "  See  it  burn- 
ing down,  down.  Soon  it  will  reach  the  end  and  we 
will  know  nothing.  Oh  is  it  not  glorious  —  nothing! 
Good-bye  world,  good-bye  life  ...  see!  it  is  nearly 
half  way.  Oh  gracious  flame,  burn  faster,  faster  yet! 
And  now,  girl,  standing  here  in  the  shadow  of  death 
do  not  refuse  my  last  request;  let  me  kiss  you  once, 
just  once  upon  your  brow." 

For  answer  she  stooped  swiftly  and  blew  out  the 
match. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  YOUNG  MAN  WHO  MAKES  GOOD 

"Why  did  ^'ou  do  it?"  I  demanded  angrily.  "Why 
couldn't  we  have  gone  through  with  it?  " 

Then  for  the  first  time  the  girl  seemed  to  find  her 
voice,  and  it  was  a  very  faint  voice  indeed. 

"  No,  no,  I  could  not.  For  myself  it  does  not  mat- 
tairc ;  but  you,  monsieur  —  that's  different." 

Again  I  was  struck  with  her  foreign  intonation,  her 
pretty  precision  with  which  Frenchwomen  speak  Eng- 
lish, the  deliberate  utterance  due  to  an  effort,  not 
wholly  successful,  to  avoid  zeeing  and  zizzing. 

"  Why  is  it  so  different  ?  "  I  asked  sulkily. 

"  Because  —  because  me,  I  am  nossing.  If  I  die  no 
persons  will  care;  but  you,  monsieur,  you  are  artist, 
you  are  poet.  You  have  many  beautiful  sings  to  do 
in  the  life.  Ah,  monsieur!  have  courage,  courage. 
Promise  me  you  nevaire  do  it  some  more." 

**  All  right,"  I  said  gloomily ;  "  I  promise.'* 

She  seemed  reassured.  Her  child's  face  as  she  looked 
at  me  was  full  of  pity  and  sympathy. 

"And  now,"  I  said,  "  what's  to  be  done?  '* 

"  I  do  not  know." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  helplessly.     All  at  once 

a  look  of  terror  came  into  her  fu  ,e.     Fearfully  she 

peered  over  my  shoulder,  then  she  cowered  back  in  the 

shadow  of  the  wall. 

"  Oh,  I'm  'fraid,  I'm  'fraid." 

89 


9() 


THE  PRETENDER 


Involuntarily  I  turned  in  the  direction  of  her  stare, 
but  saw  no  one. 

"  What  arc  you  afraicl  of  r  *'  I  asked.  "  What's  the 
trouble?" 

"It's  Monsieur  O'Flazzaire !  Oh,  I  am  bad,  bad 
girls!  Why  you  not  let  nie  die.'  I  have  keel,  I  have 
keel." 

"Good  Heavens!  you  haven't  killed  Professor 
O'Flather?" 

"No,  no,  but  I  have  keel  ze  troupe;  Batsheba,  all, 
all;  dead,  keel  by  my  hand,  keel  in  revenge.  Oh  I 
am  so  wicked!     I  hate  myself." 

I  stared  at  her.  "  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  what  have 
you  done.'' " 

For  answer  she  pulled  from  the  pocket  of  her  mantle 
a  tin  canister  of  fair  size  and  handed  it  to  me.  By 
the  lamplight  I  could  just  make  out  the  label: 

skeeter's  ixsect  powder. 


A  light  dawned  on  me.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you've  fed  'em  on  this  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  all  of  eet.  I  have  spare  nossing.  I  was 
mad.  Oh  I  'ate  heem  so !  And  now  I'm  'fraid.  If  he 
finds  me  he  will  keel  me,  certainly.  He's  bad  man. 
Oh  don't  let  heem  find  me ! " 

She  clutched  my  arm  in  her  terror. 

"  Don't  worry,"  I  assured  her.  "  But  first,  let's  de- 
stroy the  evidence  of  your  crime." 

I  flung  the  canister  into  the  river,  where  we  heard 
a  faint  splash. 

"  Now,"  I  went  on,  "  you're  no  doubt  cold  and 
hungry.     Let  me  take  you  to  the  cofFee-stall  on  the 


rili:  YOUNG  MAN  WHO  MAKES  GOOD     91 

llnibankmcnt  nnd  give  you  some  supper.  Then,  accord- 
iiii,'  to  the  custom  of  the  situution,  you  may  tell  me 
till'  sad  story  of  your  life.  In  the  meantime,  as  we 
walk  there,  let's  hear  how  you  fixed  O'Flather." 

"It  is  true,  what  I  tell  you,  Monsieur;  he's  very, 
v(  ry  bad  man.  He  'ave  sai<l  the  things  disgusting  to 
1110,  and  he  try  to  make  me  have  dinner  wi/  hcem  many 
hcvenings,  but  I  say:  No!  No!  Because,  truly,  I  have 
'orror  for  such  mans.  Den  last  night  he  tell  mc  if  I 
don'  come  wiz  heem,  he  don'  want  me  some  more.  He 
refuse  pay  me  my  money,  and  the  lady  where  I  rest 
till  me:  'You  don't  come  back  some  more  wiz  no  money.' 
So  what  I  must  do?  I  have  no  'ome,  and  just  one  sheel- 
iiig  of  money.  Ah,  no!  It  was  not  interesting  for 
me,  truly." 

She  shook  her  head  with  all  the  painful  resignation 

of  the  poor. 

"  Well,  I  am  desperate.  I  sink  it  is  all  finish  for  me. 
I  must  drink  of  the  gran'  cup  at  last.  That  make  me 
sad,  because  I  have  fight  so  long.  But  there!  it  is 
the  life,  is  it  not  ?  Then  I  sink  I  have  one  gran'  revenge. 
I  buy  wiz  my  sheeling  dat  powdai;e,  and  I  go  to  the 
exposition.  There  was  only  the  Japonaise  girl,  and 
she  leave  me  wiz  the  troupe.  They  lie  on  their  backs 
and  they  wait  for  dejeuner.  W^ell,  I  geeve  them  such 
as  I  don'  sink  they  want  eat  ever  again.  Oh,  I  'ate 
them  so,  and  I  'ate  heem  so,  and  so  I  keel  them  every 
(ine  wiz  that  powdaire,  till  zere  legs  don'  wave  some 
more.  Even  ze  wild  ones,  they  don'  jump  some  more 
now." 

"  Poor  Bathsheba !  " 

"  Then  when  I  finish  keel  the  last  one  the  Japonaise 
girl  come  and  scream  for  *he  patron,  and  I  run  like 


98 


THE  PRETKNDER 


wind.  But  I  know  he  fetch  everywhere  for  mc,  and 
when  he  find  nie  he  keel  me  too.  Anyway,  I  was  tire, 
and  I  dispair,  so  I  sink  I  throw  myself  in  the  water. 
There!" 

"  Well,  you  must  swear  you  won't  do  it  again." 

"  Yes,  I  swear  on  the  head  of  my  fazzaire,  I  won't 
<lo  it  again." 

"  And  now  for  that  cofFeo,  coffee  and  sandwiches  — 
ham  sandwiches." 

She  ate  and  drank  eagerly,  yet  always  with  that 
furtive,  hunted  look,  as  if  she  expected  to  see  the  huge 
hull-dog  face  of  O'Flathcr  with  its  mane  of  brindled 
hair  come  snarling  out  of  the  gloom.  I  saw,  too,  that 
she  was  regarding  me  with  great  interest  and  curiosity, 
indeed  with  a  certain  maternal  and  protecting  air,  odd 
in  one  so  cliildish  and  clinging  herself.  Once,  seeing 
that  I  shivered  a  little,  she  turned  up  the  collar  of  my 
coat  and  buttoned  it.  In  spite  of  the  mothering  gen- 
tleness of  the  act  I  might  have  thought  it  a  little  "  for- 
ward," had  I  not  remembered  that  in  her  eyes  we  were 
comrades  in  misfortune. 

Her  eyes!  How  blue  and  bright  they  were  now,  as 
they  regarded  me  over  her  coffee!  And  how  long,  I 
wondered,  had  that  wistful  mouth  been  a  stranger  to 
smiles? 

"  Let  me  see  you  smile,"  I  begged. 

I  thought  so.  A  flash  of  teeth  that  made  me  think 
of  an  advertising  poster  for  a  popular  dentifrice. 
Again  I  noted  the  darkness  of  her  hair,  setting  off  the 
porcelain  whiteness  of  her  skin.  Again  I  approved  of 
the  full  forehead,  and  the  frank  eyebrows.  Again  ihe 
girl  stirred  me  strangely.  And  to  think  that  she  might 
have  been  at  the  bottom  of  that  hideous  river  by  now! 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  WHO  MAKKS  GOOD     93 

I  felt  a  sudden  pity  for  her,  and  a  wish  to  shj  Id  her 
from  further  ill. 

"And  now  for  the  story,"  I  said,  as  she  finihcd. 
"  I  have  told  you  mine,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  mine !  It  is  not  so  interesting.  There  is  not 
nnich  to  tell.  My  fazzaire  die  when  I  was  Icctle  girl, 
and  I  go  to  the  convent.  There  I  learn  to  do  the  hein- 
hroderie,  and  when  I  leave  the  Sisters  I  work  in  atalier 
in  Paris.  It  was  so  hard.  We  work  from  eight  by  the 
morning  till  seven  at  night.  There  was  t'irty  girl  all 
in  one  leetle  room,  and  some  girls  was  poitrinairey 

"What's  that.?" 

"  Ah  .  .  .  what  you  call  it  —  yes,  consumption. 
Well,  I  begin  to  become  that  no  more  can  I  stand  it, 
so  I  come  to  Londres  and  try  to  get  work.  Every  day 
I  try  so  'ard  for  one  month,  for  I  can  speak  English  not 
much.  Then  just  as  I  have  no  money  left  I  get  work 
in  atalier  at  the  hem-hroderie.  It  was  not  so  'ard  as  in 
Paris,  and  I  was  very  'appy.  But  pretty  soon  I  am 
seek,  and  it  is  neccssaire  I  go  to  the  hospital.  It  was 
the  appendicite.  When  I  get  out  I  try  to  get  back 
to  the  atalier,  but  my  place  have  been  fill.  No  work, 
no  money  —  truly,  I  have  no  chance." 

"Well,  what  happened  then.'" 

"  Ah !  then  it  was  not  interesting.  I  often  go  very 
hungry.  1  live  for  many  days  on  bread,  just  bread. 
But  by  and  by  I  get  more  work.  Then  again  I  am 
very  'appy.  But  I  have  no  chance.  I  become  seek 
once  more.  I  have  headache  very  much ;  my  hair  tum- 
ble out,  and  every  night  I  cry.  But  I  try  very  'ard. 
I  must  'ecp  my  work,  I  must,  I  must.  Then  the  doc- 
tor tell  me  I  must  have  more  air.  I  must  respire.  I 
toil  him  it  is  not  for  the  poor  to  respire,  and  he  say 


94 


THE  PRETENDER 


3'ou  must  do  something  outside,  or  you  will  die.  Well, 
I  leave  the  atalier  and  for  two  months  I  fetch  somesing 
outside.  But  I  have  no  chance.  Once  more  my  money 
is  finish,  then  one  day  I  get  work  with  3Ionsieur  O'Flaz- 
zairc.  I  would  not  have  taken  it,  but  that  I  am  starve, 
and  I  am  'fraid.  It  was  so  'ard,  and  every  day  I  get 
more  weak.  Then,  yesterday,  he  tell  me :  '  Go ! 
I  don'  pay  you,' —  and  I  don'  care  for  myself  any 
more." 

"  Why,"  I  said  gravely,  looking  her  in  the  face, 
"did  you  not  do  as  others  would  have  done?" 

She  stared  at  me  in  a  startled  way: 

"  You  do  not  mean  dishonour,  monsieur.  Ah  no ! 
You  cannot  mean  that." 

"Is  it  not  better  to  do  that  than  starve.'" 

"  It  is  better  to  die  than  to  do  that,  ^  sink.  I  am 
good  Catholic,  Monsieur." 

"  Do  not  call  me  Monsieur!  Are  we  not  fellow  waifs.'' 
So  you  think  it  is  less  sin  to  take  your  own  life  than  to 
sell  your  honour?  " 

"  It  is  that  that  I  think,  Monsieur." 

As  I  looked  into  the  steady,  blue  eyes  I  saw  a  look 
of  faith  that  almost  amounted  to  fanaticism,  a  sort  of 
Joan  of  Arc  look.  "  How  curious !  "  I  thought.  "  I 
was  under  the  impression  such  sentiments  were  confined 
to  books."  However,  I  determined  to  fall  back  on 
cynicism,  and  to  seem  the  more  cynical  I  lit  a  cigarette. 
She  watched  me  with  a  curious  intensity ;  and  as  she 
stood  there  quietly,  a  naphtha  lamp  lit  up  her  pale, 
earnest  face. 

"Ah!  young  lady,"  I  remarked  mockingly,  "you 
speak  like  a  penny  novL-lette.  In  fact,  you  say  the  same 
thing  as   did   my   heroine   Monica   Klein   in   A   Shirt- 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  WHO  MAKES  GOOD  95 


maker^s  Romance.  It  only  remains  for  you  to  die  to 
.>low  music  in  the  snow  outside  the  door  of  a  fashionable 
church.  That's  what  happened  to  Monica.  I  shed  a 
bucket  of  tears  as  1  wrote  that  scene.  But  I  thought 
we  had  decided  you  were  to  be  Fact  not  Fiction.''  " 

"  I  do  not  understand,  Monsieur." 

"  Then  let  me  cxpiain.  Idealism  is  a  luxury  we  poor 
people  can't  afford.  If  you  should  be  forced  into  dis- 
honour for  bread,  lives  there  a  man  that  would  dare 
blame  you.''  To  me  you  would  be  as  good  as  the 
purest  woman,  even  though  you  walk  the  streets. 
Nay!  I'm  not  sure  tiiat  you  wouldn't  be  better,  bc- 
<-ause  you  would  be  a  victim,  a  sacrifice,  a  martyr. 
No,  you're  wrong,  mademoiselle.  I  think  you're 
wrong." 

"  It  is  easy  to  die ;  it  must  be  'ard  to  live  like  zat." 

"  How  lucky  you  find  it  so  eas}-  to  die.  Me,  I'd 
rather  be  a  live  lackey  than  a  dead  demi-god.  But 
let  me  tell  you  you  won't  get  much  credit  in  this  world 
for  dying  in  the  cause  of  virtue,  and  I  have  my  doubts 
about  the  next.  And  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  make 
nuich  odds  whether  you  die  quickly,  as  you  intended 
doing  a  little  while  ago,  or  whether  you  die  slowly  by 
hard  work  and  poor  living.  Society's  going  to  do  for 
you  anyway.  You're  Waste,  that's  what  you  arc.  \n 
every  process  there  must  be  waste,  even  in  the  civilising 
one.  You're  going  to  be  swept  into  the  rubbish  heap 
pretty  soon.  Poor  pitiful  W^aste !  What  do  you  mean 
to  do  now  ?  " 

Her  face  fell  sullenly.  She  would  not  look  at  me  any 
more,  but  sho  answered  bravely  enough. 

"  Me !  Oh,  I  suppose  I  try  again.  Perhaps  I  starve. 
Perhaps  I  find  work.     Anyway,  I  fight." 


96 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  WTiat  chance  have  you  got  —  a  poor  physique, 
hard  toil,  bad  air,  cheap  food.  You'll  go  on  fighting 
till  you  fall,  then  no  one  will  care.  If  it's  fighting 
you're  after,  why  don't  you  fight  Society,  fight  with 
your  women's  weapons,  your  allure,  your  appeal  to 
the  worst  in  man.  You  can  do  it.  Any  woman  can 
if  she's  determined  and  forgets  certain  scruples.  Do 
as  I  would  in  your  case,  as  many  men  would  if  they 
had  the  cursed  ill-luck  to  be  women.  Then,  when 
you're  sixty  you  can  turn  round  and  have  a  pew 
in   church,   instead  of   rotting   at   thirty   in   Potter's 

Field." 

"You  advice  me  like  zat?"     I  could  feel  that  she 

shrank  from  me. 

"Doesn't  it  seem  good,  practical  advice?" 

"  Suppose  no  one  want  me?  " 

"True.  There's  many  a  woman  guarding  ever  so 
jealously  a  jewel  no  man  wants  to  steal.  That's  almost 
more  bitter  than  having  it  stolon.  However,  don't  you 
worry  about  that,  there's  no  need  to." 

She  raised  her  head  which  had  been  down-hung.  In- 
tently, oddly  she  looked  at  me. 

"Will  you  take  me?"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Me!''  I  laughed.  "Why  no!  I'm  speaking  as 
one  wastrel  to  another.     How  could  I?" 

"  Would  you  if  you  could?  " 

"  Well,  ei-  —  I  don't  think  so.  You  see  —  I'm  not 
that  sort." 

"  No,  I  knew  you  were  not,"  she  said  slowly ;  "  you're 

good  man." 

"  I'm  not,"  I  protested  indignantly.  How  one  hates 
to  he  called  "good" — especially  if  one  is  a  woman. 

"  Yes,  you  are,"  she  insisted.     Then  she  threw  back 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  WHO  MAKES  GOOD  97 

litr  head  with  a  certain  tine  pride,  and  the  dark  sea- 
blue  eyes  were  unfathomable. 

"•  You  have  saved  my  life.  It  is  yours  now.  Will 
you  not  take  me?  I  am  good  girl.  I  have  always 
been  serious,  I  have  always  been  virtuous.  1  will  work 
hard  for  you.  I  will  help  you  while  you  are  so  poor; 
/en  if  one  dav  you  are  become  rich,  famous,  and  you 
are  tire  of  me,  I  will  go  away." 

I  was  taken  aback.  If  there's  one  thing  worse  than 
to  be  convicted  of  vice  it's  to  be  convicted  of  virtue. 
I  ■«<iuirnied,  stammered,  shuffled. 

'•  Well,  you  sec  I  —  Hang  it  all !  somewhere  in  my 
iiKikc-up  there's  that  uncomfortable  possession,  a  Puri- 
I. in  conscience.  I'm  sorry  —  let  me  consider  .  .  .  Per- 
li,i})N  there's  another  way." 

How  terrible  to  a  woman  to  have  the  best  she  has 
to  o.Tir  refused;  but  the  girl  bore  up  bravely. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  without  any  particular 
interest. 

I  was  doing  some  rapid  thinking.  An  idea  had  come 
into  my  head  which  startled  mc.  It  was  an  inspira- 
tion, a  solution  of  a  pressing  problem.  Swiftly  I  de- 
cided. 

"  To  do  as  you  suggest,"  I  said,  "  would  be  very 
wrong,  and  what's  worse,  it  would  be  crudely  conven- 
tional. It  is  commonplace  now  in  some  society  to  live 
with  a  person  without  marrying  them;  the  original 
thing's  to  marry  them.  W^ell,  will  you  marry  me?" 
She  looked  at  me  incredulously.  I  went  on  calmly. 
"  But  for  mo,  as  you  say,  your  troubles  would  by 
now  have  been  over.  In  a  way  I'm  responsible  for  your 
life.  What's  to  be  done?  I'm  not  old  enough  to  adopt 
you,  and  to  constitute  myself  your  guardian  would  lay 


9S 


Tin:  i'ki:ti:nueu 


iiR-  open  to  uiicharitfihle  suspicion.  From  now  on  I 
know  I  shall  Ijl-  infernullv  worried  about  vou.  Well, 
the  easiest  way  out  of  the  ditticulty  seems  to  be  to  marrv 
you,  doesn't   it.'  " 

"  But  you  don't  know  uu ,"  she  gasped. 

'•  You've  got  •  nothing  on  me  '  there,"  I  said  airily ; 
*•  you  don't  know  me.  That's  precisely  what  makes 
it  so  interesting.  Any  man  can  marry  a  woman  he 
knows ;  it  takes  an  original  to  marry  one  he  doesn't. 
Hut  after  all,  ha>  not  the  method  some  merit .^  We 
start  with  no  illusions.  There  will  be  no  eye-opening 
process,  no  finding  our  swans  geese.  The  beautv  of 
sueh  a  marriage  is  that  we  don't  entirely  ring  down  the 
curtain  on  romance." 

"  Hut  —  I  have  no  money." 

"  Neither  have  I.  What  does  that  matter .>  Any 
fool  can  marry  if  he's  got  monev;  it  takes  a  brave  man 
to  do  it  if  he's  broke." 

"  Hut  — " 

'*  Not  another  word.  It's  all  settled.  I  think  it's  a 
splendid  idea.  We'll  be  married  to-morrow  if  possible. 
I'll  get  a  licence  at  once.  By  the  way,  what's  your 
name.''  It's  oi  no  consequence,  you  know,  but  I  fancy 
it's  necessary  for  the  licence."' 

'•  .\nastasia  Guinoval." 

"  Thank  you.  Now  I'll  take  you  to  where  you  live, 
and  you  must  accept  a  little  money  to  satisfy  your 
landlady.  To-morrow  I'll  call  for  you.  Hold  on  a 
minute  —  as  we're  affianced,  seems  to  me  we  ought  to 
kiss?" 

"I  —  don't  know." 

"  Yes,  I  l)elieve  it's  customary."  I  pecked  at  her 
lightly  in  the  dark.     "  Now,  you  understand  we're  mak- 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  WHO  MAKES  GOOD  99 

ing  a  real  sensible  marriage,  without  any  sentimental 
nonsense  about  it.  You  understand  I'm  not  a  senti- 
mental man.     1  hate  sentiment." 

''  I  understand,"  she  said  doubtfully. 

As  we  moved  away,  up  their  in  the  dark  that  great 
sonorous  bell  boomed  the  stroke  of  one.  Only  aji 
hour,  yet  how  busy  had  the  fates  been  on  my  particular 
account !  In  what  ludicrous  ways  had  they  worked  out 
their  design !  On  what  trivial  things  does  destiny  sceuj 
to  hinge!     Ah!  who  shall  say  what  is  trivial? 

On  reaching  my  room  my  first  act  was  to  take  up 
mv  half-finished  letter  to  Mrs.  Fitz.  I  read  the  words : 
"  If  ever  we  should  find  ourselves  free  to  marry,  you 
promised  you  would  send  for  me." 

"  Good !  "  I  cried  exultantly.  "  She  will  find  herself 
fi-ee  to  marry  all  right,  but  I  won't ;  that  is,  I  hope  I 
won't  after  to-morrow.  Whoever  could  have  guessed 
the  motive  behind  my  apparently  rash  proposal.  To 
avoid  one  marriage  I  stake  my  chances  on  another. 
Well,  that  settles  things  as  far  as  Mrs.  Fitz  is  con- 
cerned.    Ronnie  and  Lonnie,  I  defy  you." 

So  I  tore  my  letter  into  small  pieces  with  a  vast 
satisfaction,  and  I  was  proceeding  to  tear  also  the 
luckless  copy  of  the  Gotham  Gazette  when  I  paused. 
I  had  not  noticed  th.at  the  fateful  paragraph,  begun 
near  the  bottom  of  a  page,  was  continued  on  the  next. 
Again  I  read: 

"...  when  the  nearest  spectators  could  reach  him  to 
rescue  him  from  his  perilous  position  they  found  to  their 
surprise  that  the  man  was  dead  .  .  ." 

Quickly  I  turned  over  the  page;  then  I  gave  a  gasp, 
for  this  was  the  continuation: 


100 


THE  PRETENDER 


"...  to  the  world.  The  gallant  captain  had  been  im- 
bibing not  wisely  but  too  well,  and  when  aroused  after  some 
difSculty,  claimed  that  he  had  a  right  to  sleep  there  if  he 
chose.  It  was  only  after  much  argument  and  resistance 
that  he  was  finally  persuaded  to  accompany  an  officer  to 
the  police  station." 

"  Of  all  the  — " 

Words  failed  me  at  this  point.  I  plumped  down  on 
my  chair  and  sat  as  if  paralysed.  And  after  all  the 
captain  was  not  dead  —  only  dead  drunk,  and  my 
brilliant  effort  to  avoid  marrying  his  widow  had  been 
entirely  unnecessary.     Then  after  all  I  was  a  fool. 

Well,  it  was  too  late  to  find  it  out.  At  least  I  never 
went  back  on  my  word.  I  must  go  through  with  the 
other  business. 

"  Anastasia  Guinoval !  Hum !  maybe  it'll  turn  out 
all  right.  Time  will  show.  Anyway  —  it  will  be  a 
good  chance  to  learn  French." 

And  with  this  comforting  reflection  I  went  to  bed. 


EKD  OF  BOOK  \ 


BOOK  II  — THE  STRUGGLE 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  NEWLY-WEDS 

It  was  nearly  a  week  bciore  I  recovered  from  the  sur- 
prise of  my  sudden  niarriiig  .■. 

As  far  as  the  actual  ceremony  went  it  seemed  as  if 
I  were  the  person  least  concerned.  One,  James  Horace 
Madden,  was  tying  himself  in  the  most  awkward  man- 
ner to  a  men)ber  of  the  opposite  sex,  a  slight,  pale, 
neatly -dressed  girl  whose  lucent  blue  eyes  were  already 
beginning  to  regard  him  with  positive  adoration.  The 
said  James  Horace  Madden,  a  tall,  absent- -ninded  young 
man,  stared  about  him  continually.  He  was,  indeed, 
more  like  a  curious  and  amused  spectator  than  a  prin- 
cipal in  the  affair,  and  it  was  nearly  over  before  he  de- 
cided to  become  interested  in  it. 

Well,  I  was  married,  so  they  told  me,  as  they  shook 

my  hand;  and  I  had  a  wife,  so  she  assured  me  as  she 

clung  lightly  to  my  arm.     She  seemed  extravagantly 

happy.     When  I  saw  she  was  so  happy  I  was  glad  I 

had   married   her.     To   tell   the  truth,   I   had   almost 

backed  out.     The  inconsiderateness  of  Captain   Fitz- 

barrington   in  not   dying  had  hurt   my   feelings  and 

aroused   in   me   a   resentment   against   Fate.     In   the 

end,  however,  good  nature  prevailed.     I  believe  I  am 

good-natured  enough  to  marry  a  dozen  women  should 

occasion  demand. 

We  had  not  been  wed  five  minutes  before  Anastasia 

101 


102 


Tin:  PHKTKNDER 


dcveloprd  an  oxtraonlin.irv  capacity,  for  unreserved 
affection.  I  have  never  been  capable  of  unreserved 
affection,  not  even  for  myself;  but  I  can  appreciate 
it  ill  others,  particularly  if  I  am  the  object  of  it.  She 
also  (levdoped  such  a  morbid  fear  of  the  infuriate 
OTlather  that  on  my  sn/jgcsting  we  spend  our  honey- 
iiionn  in  Paris  her  enthusiasm  was  almost  grotesque. 
When  we  arrived  at  the  Garc  du  Nord  I  believe  she 
could  have  km  It  down  and  kiss.d  the  very  stones. 

And  to  tell  the  truth  my  own  delight  was  hardly 
less  restrained.  There's  only  one  mood  in  which  to 
approach  Paris  —  Rhapsody.  So  for  ten  marvellous 
days  1  rhapsodised.  The  fact  that  I  was  on  a  honey- 
moon seemed  trivial  compared  with  my  presence  in 
the  most  adorable  of  cities.  Truly  my  bride  had  rea- 
son to  be  jealous  of  this  Paris,  and,  as  she  was  given 
that  way,  doubtless  she  would  have  been  had  not  she 
herself  loved  so  well. 

Rut  I  lure  was  another  matter  to  distract  me:  had 
I  not  a  new  part  to  play?  As  a  young  married  man  it 
behoved  me,  in  the  first  place,  to  acquire  a  certain 
seriousness  and  weight.  After  due  reflexion  I  decided 
to  give  up  tiie  flippant  cigarette  and  take  to  the  more 
diirnified  pipe.  So  I  made  myself  a  present  of  a  splen- 
did nieerseliaum,  and  getting  Anastasia  to  encase  the 
bowl  In  a  flannel  jacket  I  began  to  colour  it. 

Imagine  me,  then,  on  a  certain  snappy  morning  of 
lati'  December,  nursing  my  flannel-clad  meerschaum  as 
I  'swing  jnuntily  along  the  Quai  des  Toumelles.  Sea- 
sonable weather!  the  brilliant  sunshine  playing  on  the 
Seine  with  all  the  glitter  of  cutlery :  bevond  the  splen- 
did stride  of  steel  between  the  two  lies,  the  Hotel  de 
Ville:  to  the  left   the  hideous   Morgue:  beyond  that, 


Tin:  NKWLY-WKDS 


KKJ 


again,  \hc  grey  glory  of  Notre  Dainc,  iK  honc-blanclitil 
buttresses  like  the  ribs  of  some  uncouth  monster,  its 
two  blunt  towers  like  timewcm  horns,  its  gargoyles 
etched  in  ebon  black  against  the  sky. 

"  After  all,"  I  am  reflecting,  "  the  ndvantuge*  of 
marrying  a  person  one  does  not  know  are  sufficiently 
obvious.  Then  there  is  no  bitterness  of  disillusion- 
ment, no  chagrin  of  being  found  out.  What  woman 
can  continue  to  idealise  an  unshaven  man  in  pyjamas? 
What  man  can  per'.!<t  in  kIm:  i;ig  a  female  in  a  peignoir 
with  her  hair  concentrated  into  knots?  In  good  truth 
we  never  marry  the  person  with  whom  we  go  through 
the  wedding  ceremony:  it's  always  some  one  else." 

Here  I  pause  to  stare  appreciatively  at  the  Fontaine 
St.  Michel,  amid  whose  icicles  the  sunbeams  play  at 
hide-and-seek.  Then  I  watch  the  steam  of  a  tug  which 
the  sunshine  tangles  in  fleeces  of  gold  amid  the  bare 
branches  of  a  marronnier:  after  which  in  the  same 
zestful  way  I  regard  a  hearty  man  on  a  sand-barge 
toasting  some  beef  on  a  sharpened  stick  over  a  fire. 
Suddenly  these  humble  things  seem  to  become  alive  with 
interest  for  me. 

"  Yes,"  I  continue,  "  love  is  an  intoxicant,  marriage 
the  most  eff^ertive  of  soberers.  It  is  a  part  of  life's 
discipline,  a  bachelor's  punishment  for  his  sins,  a  life- 
long argimient  in  which  one  is  wise  to  choose  an  op- 
ponent one  can  out-voice.  How  the  fictitious  values  of 
courtship  arc  discounted  in  the  mart  of  matrimony! 
It  makes  philosophers  of  us  all.  Having  been  a  bene- 
dict three  weeks,  of  course  T  know  cverythin^r  about  it." 
The  long  slate-grey  facade  of  the  I.ouvre  is  sun- 
radiant,  and  like  a  point  of  admiration  rears  the  Tower 
St.    Jacques.     Looking    down    the    shining    river    the 


104 


Tin:  i'hi:'ii:m)i:h 


arches  of  the  many  bridges  interlock  like  lacework, 
and  like  needles  the  li^ile  steamers  dart  gleaming 
throngli.  The  graceful  river  and  the  gleaming  quays 
laugh  in  the  sunshine,  and  as  I  look  at  them  my  heart 
Ifuighs  too. 

"  Hut,"  I  ^r„  on  musingly,  "  to  marry  some  one  you 
ilon't  know,  some  one  who  has  never  inspired  you  with 
mad  dreams,  never  lived  for  you  in  the  glamour  of 
romance:  surely  that  is  ideal.  You  have  no  illusions; 
her  virtues  as  well  as  her  faults  are  all  to  discover. 
Take  my  own  case.  So  far,  I  haven't  discovered  a 
single  fault.  My  wife  adores  me.  She  can  scarcely 
hear  me  out  of  her  sight.  Even  now  I  know  she's 
anxiously  awaiting  my  return:  imagines  I  may  have 
heen  run  over  by  a  taxi,  and  then  arrested  by  a  police- 
man for  getting  in  its  way.  Or  else  I  have  a  maitresse. 
Frequently  she  shows  signs  of  jealousy,  and  I've  heen 
away  over  an  hour.  Reallv  I  must  hurry  home  to 
reassure  her." 

With  that  I  pass  under  the  arch  of  the  Institute,  and 
turn  up  the  rue  de  Seine.  I  glance  with  eager  interest 
at  the  gorgelike  nie  Visconti :  I  itch  to  turn  over  th«- 
folios  before  the  doors  of  the  art  dealers,  but  on  I  go 
stubbornly  till  I  come  to  a  doorway  bearing  the  sign : 

HOTEL    or    .MOXDE    ET    DV    MOZAMBIQT'E. 


A  certain  tenebrous  suggestion  in  the  vestibule 
seems  to  account  for  the  latter  part  of  the  title.  It 
is  a  tall,  decrepit  building  that  at  some  time  had  been 
sandwiched  between  two  others  of  more  stalwart  bear- 
ing who  now  support  it.  It  consists  chiefly  of  a  wind 
ing  stairway  lit  by  lamps  of  oil.     At  everv  stage  two 


Tin:  M.WI.V  WKDS 


10."» 


rooms  setiii  to  Inippi-n :  but  they  are  so  small  as  to  ap- 
pear accidental. 

So  up  this  precipitous  stairway  lightly  I  leap  till  I 
come  to  the  third  stony.  Tliorc  before  a  yellow  door 
I  knock  three  times. 

"Come  in!"  crie-s  a  joyful  voice,  and  I  enter  to  find 
two  soft  arms  nround  my  neck,  and  two  soft  lips  up- 
held expectantly. 

"  Hullo,  Little  Thing,"  I  shout  cheerily. 

"Oh,  darleon,  why  you  not  come  before?  You 
aflPright    me.     I    sink    you    have    haxident,    and    I    am 


»♦ 


nnxieuse 

''  No,   no,   I've  only   been  gone  an   liour 


I've  had 
several  narrow  escapes,  though.  Nearly  got  blown  into 
the  Seine,  was  attacked  by  an  Apache  in  the  Avenue  de 
rOpera,  and,  stepping  off  the  pavement  to  avoid  go- 
ing under  a  ladder,  was  knocked  down  by  a  taxi.  But 
no  bones  broken  ;  got  home  at  last." 

"  Ah !  you  laugh ;  hut  me,  I  wait  here  and  I  sink 
all  the  time  you  was  keel.  Oh,  darlee-  '  you  was  keel 
I  die  too." 

"  Nonsense!  You'd  make  rather  a  jolly  little  widow. 
Well,  what  else  have  you  been  doing,  besides  worrying 
about  me.'  '* 

"  Oh,  I  make  blouse.  I  sink  it  will  be  very  pretty. 
You  will  see." 

"  All  right,  we'll  put  it  on  and  go  to  the  opcru  to- 
night." 

The  "opera"  is  a  cinema  hou.se  near  the  Place  St. 
Michel,  where  we  go  on  rainy  evenings,  usually  in  our 
oldest  clothes,  and  joking  merrily  about  opera  cloaks 
and  evening  dress. 

"See!     Isn't  it  nice?" 


■  -  ■ 


10() 


Tin:  rur/rKNDKii 


she  holds  up  a  sliiiniii«<riiig  sketch  in  silk  and  pins. 
"  It's  the  chiffon  you  gtpvc  me.  But  you  must  not 
spend  your  money  like  that.     You  spoil  me." 

"  Not  at  all.  But  talking  about  money  reminds  me : 
I  got  my  English  gold  changed  to-day.  Now,  let's 
form  a  committee  of  ways  and  means.  Her^  is  all  that 
lies  between  you  and  me  and  the  wolf." 

I  throw  a  wad  of  Him^y  French  bills  on  the  table. 

"  A  thousand  francs !  Now  that's  got  to  last  us  till 
some  Editor  realises  that  certain  gems  of  literature 
signed   '  Silenus   Starset '   are   worth   real   money." 

"  Oh,  they  arc  loovely,  darleen,  your  writings.  No 
one  will  refuse  articles  so  beautiful." 

"  My  dear,  you  can't  conceive  the  intensity  of  edi- 
torial obfustication.  I  fear  we've  got  to  retrench. 
You  must  make  the  '  economies.'  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  that  is  easy  for  me.  I  know  nussing  but 
make  the  economies.  You  see  it  is  the  chance  often  if 
I  have  anysing  to  make  the  economics  on." 

"  Good !  Well,  the  first  thing  is  to  get  out  of  this 
hotel.  We  can't  afford  palatial  luxury  at  five  francs 
a  day.'* 

And  here  I  look  with  some  distaste  at  the  best  bed- 
room the  Hotel  du  Monde  et  du  Mozambique  affords. 
I  see  a  fat,  higli  bed  of  varnished  pine,  on  which  reposes 
n  bloated  crimson  quilt.  On  the  mantelpiece  a  glass 
bell  enshrines  a  clock  of  gilt  and  chocolate-coloured 
marble.  There  is  a  paunchy,  inhospitable  chair  of 
green  plush,  and  two  of  apologetic  cane.  An  oval  tabic 
is  covered  by  a  fringed  cloth  of  crimson  velour,  and 
there  is  a  mirror  in  two  sections,  which,  by  an  ingenious 
system  of  distortion  iuunediately  makes  one  hate  one- 


THK  NKWLY-WEDS 


lO- 


sflf  —  one  cither  looks  mentally  abnormal,  or  about  as 
intelligent  as  a  caveman. 

"  In  truth,"  I  observe,  "  the  decorative  scheme  of 
our  apartment  puzzles  me.  Whether  it  is  Empire  or 
I.ouis  Quinze  I  cannot  decide.  Really,  we  must  seek 
something  less  complex.'* 

She  looks  at  the  money  thoughtfully.  "Wc  might 
take  a  logement.  Already  have  I  think  of  it.  To-day 
I  have  ask  Mndanic  who  keep  the  hotel,  and  she  tell 
inc  zore  is  one  very  near  —  rue  Mazarin.  The  rent  is 
five  hundred  by  year.  Perhaps  it  is  too  much,"  she 
adds  timidly. 

"  No,  I  think  we  might  allow  that.  We  pay  three 
months  in  advance,  I  suppose.  Allow  other  three  hun- 
dred* francs  for  furnishing  —  do  you  think  we  could 
manage  on  that  ?  " 

She  looks  doubtful.  "Not  very  nice;  but  wc  will 
do  for  the  best.     I  will  be  so  careful." 

"  Oh,  we'll  arrange  somehow.  We'll  then  have  five 
hundred  francs  for  food  and  other  things.  Wc  must 
make  that  last  for  three  months.  By  that  time  I'm  sure 
to  he  making  something  out  of  my  writings.  Five  hun- 
dred francs  for  two  people  for  three  months  isn't  much, 
is  it?" 

"  No,  but  we  will  take  very  much  care,  darken.  I 
do  not  care  for  myself;  it  is  only  for  you." 

"  Don't  lose  any  sleep  over  me.  I'll  be  all  right  if 
you  will.  It  will  be  real  fun  scheming  and  dreaming, 
and  making  the  best  of  everything.  We'll  see  how 
much  happiness  we  can  squeeze  out  of  every  little  sou: 
we'll  get  to  know  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  poor. 
They  say  that  Bohemia  is  vanished;  but   we'll  prove 


10« 


THE  I'UETENDEK 


that  wherever  there  is  striving  and  the  happy  heart  in 
spite  of  need,  wherever  there  is  devotion  to  art  in  the 
face  of  poverty,  there  eternally  is  Bohemia.  Hurrah ! 
how  splendid  to  be  young  and  poor  and  to  have  our 
dreams ! " 

I  laugh  exultantly,  and  the  girl  enters  into  my  joy- 
ous mood. 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  "  we  shall  be  gay.  As  for  me,  I 
will  buy  a  metier.  I  will  work  at  my  hem-broderie.  I 
will  make  leetle  money  like  that.  Oh,  not  much,  but 
it  will  assist.     So  we  will  be  all  right." 

"  Yes,"  I  cry,  enamoured  of  the  vision.  "  And 
when  success  does  come,  how  we  will  glory  in  it !  How 
good  will  seem  the  feast  after  the  fast !  Ah !  but  some- 
times, when  we  have  our  house  near  the  Bois,  will  we  not 
look  back  with  regret  to  the  days  when  we  struggled  and 
rejoiced  there  in  our  tiny  Mansard  of  Dreams.?'  " 

I  pause  for  a  moment,  while  my  kinematographic 
magination  begins  to  work.     I  go  on  dramatically: 

"Then  some  day  of  December  twilight,  when  the 
snow  is  falling,  I  will  steal  away  from  the  flunkies  and 
the  marble  halls,  and  go  down  to  look  at  the  old  windows 
now  so  blind  and  dead.  And  as  I  stand  wrapped  in 
mournful  reverie  and  a  five  hundred  franc  overcoat, 
su.ldenly  I  hear  a  soft  step.  There  in  the  dusk  I  am 
aware  of  a  shadowy  form  also  gazing  up  at  the  poor 
old  windows.  Lo!  it  is  you,  and  there  are  tears  in 
your  eyes.  You  too  have  slipped  away  from  the  marble 
halls  to  sentimentalise  over  the  old  home.  Then  we 
embrace,  and,  calling  the  limousine,  whirl  off  to  din- 
ner at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  ...  But  that  reminds 
'"«^  — 1^'*'^  go  t"  dijcuner.  Where  shall  it  he  ~  chez 
Voisin,  Foyot,  or  Laperoiise?  " 


THE  NEWLY-WEDS 


109 


It  turni  out  to  be  at  the  sign  of  the  Golden  Snail  in 
th«  neighbourhood  of  the  Markets,  where  for  one  franc 
seventy-five  we  have  an  elaborate  choice  of  hort-de- 
auvreg,  some  meat  that  we  strongly  suspect  to  be  horse, 
big  white  beans,  a  bludgeon  of  highly-glazed  bread,  a 
wedge  of  mould-sheathed  Camembert  (which  she  eats 
with  joy,  but  which  I  cannot  be  induced  to  touch), 
and  some  purple  wine  that  puts  my  teeth  on  edge.  Yet, 
as  I  sit  there  with  a  large  damp  napkin  on  my  knee  and 
my  feet  in  the  saw-dust  of  the  floor,  I  am  superlatively 
happy. 

"  It  is  very  extravagant,"  I  say,  as  I  recklessly  >rder 
coffee.  "  You  know  there  are  places  where  we  can 
have  dejeuner  for  one  franc  fifty,  or  even  for  one  franc 
twenty-five.  Just  think  of  it!  We  might  have  saved 
a  whole  franc  on  this  meal." 

**  We  save  much  more  than  that,  when  we  have 
menage.     It  will  cost  so  little  then.     You  will  see." 

"  Will  it  really  ?  Come  on,  then,  and  let's  have  a 
look  at  your  apartment.  It  may  be  taken  just  ten 
minutes  before  we  get  there.     They  always  are." 

Off  we  go  as  eager  as  children,  and  with  rising  ex- 
citement we  reach  the  mouldering  rue  Ma/arin.  We 
reconnoitre  a  gloomy-looking  building  entered  by  a 
massive,  iron-studded  door.  Through  a  tunnel-like 
porch-way  we  see  a  tiny  court  in  the  centre  of  which 
is  a  railed  space  about  six  feet  square.  Within  it  stand 
a  few  pots  of  dead  geraniums  and  a  weather-stained 
plaster-cast  of  Bellona,  thus  achieving  an  atmosphere 
of  both  nature  and  art. 

The  corpulent  concierge  emerges  from  her  cubby- 
hole.—  Yes,  she  will  show  us  the  apartment.  There 
has  been  a  Monsieur  to  see  it  that  very  morning.     He 


110 


THE  PRETENDER 


Iwis  been  undecided  whether  to  take  it  or  not,  but  will 
let  her  know  in  the  morning. 

Tliiis  makes  us  keen  to  secure  it,  and  it  is  almost  with 
u  determination  to  be  please  d  that  we  mount  five  flights 
of  dingy  stairs.  A  faded  carpet  accompanies  us  as  far 
as  the  fourth  flight,  then  deserts  us  in  disgust. 

Nothing  damps  our  ardour,  however.  We  decide 
that  the  smallness  of  the  two  rooms  is  a  decided  advan- 
tage, th<.'  view  into  the  mildt^wed  court  quaint  and 
charming,  the  fact  that  water  is  obtained  from  a  com- 
mon tap  on  the  landing  no  particular  detriment.  The 
girl,  pleased  that  I  am  pleased,  becomes  enthusiastic. 
It  will  be  her  first  home.  Her  heart  warms  to  it. 
Scant  a:s  it  is,  no  other  will  ever  be  quite  so  dear.  With 
the  eye  ti  fancy  she  sees  its  bareness  clad  and  com- 
forted. Poor  lonely  house !  Seeing  the  light  ashine 
in  the  wistful  blue  eyes,  I  too  becouje  enthusiastic,  and 
thus  we  inspire  each  other. 

"  It's  a  dear  little  apartment,"  I  say.  "  How  lucky 
we  are  to  have  stumbled  on  it.  I'm  going  to  take  it 
at  once.     We'll  pay  the  first  quarter's  rent  right  now." 

'*  Vou  must  geevc  somesing  to  the  concierge,"  she 
whispers  as  I  pay. 

"  Ah,  I  see !  a  sop  to  Ccrebus.     All  right." 

"  How  much  you  gecve.''  " 

*'  Twenty  francs." 

"  Mon  Dieu !  Twenty  francs !  Ten  was  enough. 
She  sink  now  we  are  made  of  money." 

Anastasia  is  always  ready  to  remind  me  that  we  have 
entered  on  a  regime  of  economy.  She  seems  to  have 
made  up  her  mind  that,  like  all  Americans,  I  have  no 
idea  of  the  value  of  money,  and  that  as  a  thrifty  and 
prudent  woman  of  the  most   thrifty  and  prudent   race 


THE  m:\vlv-weds 


111 


ill  tlio  world,  it  behooves  her  to  keep  a  close  hand  on 
the  purse  strings.  I  am  just  like  a  child,  she  decides, 
and  she  must  look  after  me  like  a  mother. 

\Vhat  a  busy  week  it  is!  She  takes  into  her  own 
hands  the  furnishing  of  our  home,  calculating  every 
'ou,  pondering  every  detail.  Time  after  time  we  prowl 
past  the  furnishing  shops  on  the  Ave/iue  du  Maine, 
trying  to  decide  what  we  had  be-.t  take.  There  is  a 
iiDve!  pleasure  in  this.  Thus  I  am  absurdly  pleased 
when,  on  our  decidujg  to  take  a  table  at  twenty-two 
frai.cs,  I  find  a  place  where  I  can  buv  exactly  the  same 

J.  f  •> 

for  twenty-one. 

We  save  money  on  the  cleaning  of  the  house  by  doing 
it  ourselves.  There  is  the  floor  to  wax  and  polish.  For 
the  latter  operation  I  sit  down  on  a  pad  of  several 
tliicknesscs  of  flannel,  then  she,  catching  my  feet,  pulls 
me  around  on  the  slippery  surface  till  it  shines  like 
u  mirror.  We  are  very  proud  of  that  gloss}'  floor,  and 
regard  our  work  almost  with  reverence,  stepping  on  it 
as  one  might  the  sacred  carpet  of  Mecca. 

Then  comes  the  furnishing.  P'irst,  there  is  the  bed- 
room. We  buy  two  little  beds  of  the  fold-up  variety, 
and  set  them  side  by  side.  Our  bedding,  though  only 
of  cotton,  is,  we  decide,  softer  and  nicer  than  linen 
and  wool;  and  the  pink  quilt  that  covers  both  beds, 
could,  we  declare,  scarce  be  told  from  silk.  Our  ward- 
robe —  what  is  easier  than  to  make  a  broad  shelf  about 
six  feet  high,  and  hang  from  it  chintz  curtains  behind 
which  a  dozen  hooks  are  screwed  into  tne  wall. 

E(iually  simple  are  our  other  arrangements.  A 
cosy  corner  can  be  deftly  made  of  boards  and  cushions. 
She  insists  on  me  buying  a  superannuated  arm-chair, 
ami   she   re-covers   it,  so   that   it   looks   like  new.     She 


11'.' 


THE  rHKTENDEU 


selects  clieap  but  daint}-  curtains,  a  pretty  table-clotli 
to  hide  the  rough  table,  so  that  you'd  never  know;  a 
little  buffet,  a  mirror  for  the  bedroom,  pictures  for  the 
walls,  kitchen  things,  table  things  —  really,  it's  awful 
how  much  3'ou  require  for  a  menage,  and  how  quickly 
in  spite  of  yourself  your  precious  money  melts. 

These  ;irc  the  merry  days,  but  at  last  all  is  finished  — 
the  first  home.  What  if  we  have  exceeded  the  margin 
a  little?     Everything  is   really  cosy   and  comforting. 

"  This  is  an  occasion,"  I  say.     "  Let  us  celebrate  it." 

In  our  little  stove,  heated  to  a  cherry  glow,  we 
roast  our  maiden  chicken.  The  first  time  we  put  it 
on  the  table  it  is  not  quite  enough  done.  We  peer  at 
it  anxioiisly,  we  probe  at  it  cautiously,  finally  we  de- 
cide to  put  it  back  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Hut  then  —  ye  gods!  W^hat  a  bird!  How  plump  and 
brown  and  savoury!  How  it  sizzles  in  "  amber 
gravy !  Never,  think  we,  have  we  tasted  f >  •  -  so  de- 
licious.    We  eat  it  with  reverence. 

Aftor  that  she  makes  one  of  the  seven-and-thirty 
^Hla(ls  of  that  land  of  salads;  then  we  have  a  dish  of 
I'ttits  pois,  and  we  finish  off  with  a  great  golden  brioche 
and  red  currant  jam. 

"  Now,"  I  say,  "  we'll  drink  to  ourselves,  and  to  our 
^■•\~t\n-   'ome;   and,   by   the  gods,  we'll  drink   in   cham- 


!)ft<rnc 


,  I "' 


With  that  I  triumphantly  produce  a  half-bottle  of 
Moiis.u'ii.v  that  I  have  been  hiding,  a  graceful  bottle 
V.  i!h  .1  cap  of  gold.  Appalling  extravagance!  Veuve 
Amivt!  Who  could  tell  it  from  Veuve  Clicquot?  —  and 
it  costs  only  a  franc  and  a  half. 

Cut  tlie  win!  Watch  the  cork  start  up,  slowly, 
slouly  .  .  .  then  —  Pop!  away  it  springs,  and  smacks 


THE  NEWLY-WEDS 


lis 


the  ceiling.  Quickly  I  fill  her  a  foaming  glass,  and 
we  drink  to  "  La  France."  After  that,  sitting  over 
the  fire,  we  plunge  long  spongy  biscuits  into  the  bub- 
liling  wine  that  seems  to  seethe  in  fierce  protest  at  be- 
ing thus  tormented.  And  if  you  do  not  think  we  are  as 
happy  as  the  joyous  liquor  wo  sip,  you  do  not  know- 
Youth  and  Paris.  To  conclude  the  evening,  we  scurry 
off  to  the  Cinema  theatre  as  merry  as  children. 

Most  of  the  films  are  American,  and  what  is  my 
amazement  to  find  that  one  of  them,  all  cowboys, 
breeze,  and  virtue  rewarded,  is  a  cinematisation  of 
my  own  book.  Rattlesnake  Ranch.  Yes,  there  are  my 
characters  —  the  sheriff's  daughter,  Mike  the  Mule- 
skinner,  and  the  rest.  A  thrill  runs  down  my  back, 
almost  a  shiver. 

"  How  do  you  like  it?  "  I  ask  the  girl. 

"  I  love  it.     I  love  all  sings  Americaine  now." 

"  Really,  it's  awful  rubbish.  You  mustn't  judge 
America  by  things  like  that." 

"  I  love  it,"  she  protests  stoutly. 

We  get  home  quite  tirfd;  but  after  she  has  gone  to 
hod,  I  get  out  my  pen  and  plunge  into  a  new  article. 
It  is  called,  How  to  be  a  Successful  Wift. 


I 


ftt 


CHAPTER  II 

THAT  MIDDLE-HEADED  SANTA  CLAUS 

Ix  the  morning  Anastasia  always  has  her  menage  to 
do.  She  sweeps  till  the  parquet  is  like  a  mirror,  and 
dusts  till  not  a  speck  can  you  find  from  floor  to  ceiling. 
No  priest  could  take  his  ministrations  more  seriously 
than  Anastasia  her  daily  routine  as  a  femme  d'interieur, 
and  on  these  occasions  she  makes  me  feel  negligible  to 
the  point  of  humility.  So  I  kiss  her,  and  after  being 
duly  inspected  and  adjured  to  take  preciou3  care  of 
myself,  I  am  permitted  to  depart. 

Oh,  those  morning  walks!  How  this  Paris  inspires 
and  exalts  me !  The  year  is  closing  with  a  seasonable 
bnlhancy  of  starry  nights  and  diamond-bright  mom- 
mgs.  How  radiant  the  sunshine  seems  as  I  emerge 
from  our  gloomy  porchway,  with  its  prison-like  gate! 
The  gaunt  rue  Mazarin  is  a  lane  of  light,  and  the 
ancient  houses,  with  their  inscriptions  of  honourable 
service  seem  to  smile  in  every  wrinkle.  Each  has  a 
rharactenr-0f  its  own.  There  are  some  that  step  dis- 
dainfully back  from  their  fellows,  and  there  are  quaint 
roofs  and  unexpected,  pokey  little  windows,  and  a 
dilapidated  irregularity  that  takes  one  back  to  the 
days  of  swashbuckling  romance. 

At  the  end  of  the  street  I  stop  to  give  a  penny  to  the 
blind  man  who  stamps  his  cold  feet  and  holds 'out  his 
red  hand.  On  this  particular  morning  he  stamps  a 
little  more  vigorously  than  usual,  and  the  red  hand  is 
so  numb  that   it  seems  insensible  to  the  touch  of  the 

lU 


muddle-iii:adi:d  santa  claus     115 

copper  coin.  The  Seine  flashes  with  light.  Uphol- 
stered with  its  long,  slim  quays,  it  looks  more  than 
tver  gilt  and  gracious.  Yes,  it  is  cold.  The  darting 
bateaux-mouchi  are  icicle-fringed,  and  the  guardians 
of  the  few  book-bins  that  are  open  arc  muffled  to  the 
ears.  I  wear  no  coat,  because,  except  for  my  old 
mackintosh,  I  do  not  possess  one.  I  have,  however, 
bought  a  long  muffler  which  I  wind  around  my  throat, 
and  allow  to  flutter  behind.  People  look  oddly  at  me ; 
because,  where  the  world  wears  a  coat,  the  coatless 
man  becomes  a  mark. 

From  the  Pont  des  Arts  the  river  is  yellow  in  colour, 
and  seethes  with  slush  ice.  The  sun  is  poised  above 
the  Institute,  whose  dome  is  black  against  the  sky. 
The  He  de  la  Cite  is  a  wedge  of  high  grey  houses  that 
seem  to  pierce  the  Pont-Neuf  bridge,  and  protrude  in 
a  green  point,  dominated  by  an  enormous  tree,  through 
whose  branches  I  can  dimly  discern  the  statue  of 
Henri  Quatre.  Afar,  the  sweeping  rampart  of  houses 
that  overhang  the  river  melts  in  pearly  haze,  and  the 
dim  ranges  of  roofs  uprise  like  an  arena  amid  which  I 
can  see  the  time-defying  towers  of  Notre  Dame  and  the 
piercing  delicacy  of  the  spire,  as  it  claims  the  sun  in  a 
lance  of  light. 

Here  I  pause  to  fill  (with  reverence)  the  meerschaum 
pipe,  which  is  colouring  as  coyly  as  a  sunkissed  peach. 
"  What  a  privilege  to  live  in  this  adorable  Paris ! " 
I  think:     "How  exasperatingly  beautiful!" 

Under  the  statue  of  Voltaire  I  stop  for  a  moment  to 
regard  that  enigmatic  smile;  then  I  turn  to  the  rue 
Bonaparte.  The  ficole  des  Beaux-Arts  is  disgorging 
its  students,  fantastic  little  fellows  with  broad-brimmed 
hats  and  dark,  downy  facis.     Here  they  come,  these 


I 


116 


THE  PRETENDER 


vivacious  raping  drawn  from  all  the  world  by  that 
mighty  magnet,  Paris.  Art  is  in  the  very  air.  In  that 
old  quadrangle  it  quivers  from  each  venerable  stone. 
It  challenges  at  every  turn.  The  shops  that  line  the 
street  exude  it.  Since  I  have  come  here  it  is  odd  how 
I  have  felt  its  inspiration,  so  confident  and  serene,  mak- 
ing me  disgusted  with  everything  I  have  done. 

Striking  up  the  rue  de  Rennes  I  come  to  a  doorway 
bearing  the  sign  in  large  letters: 

MONT  DE  PIETE 

Trust  the  French  to  do  things  gracefully.  Now, 
if  this  was  a  sordid  Anglo-Saxon  pawnshop  I  would  be 
reconnoitring  up  and  down,  imagining  every  one 
knew  my  errand.  Then  I  would  sneak  upstairs  like 
a  thief  trying  to  dispose  of  stolen  property.  But  a 
Mont  de  Piete  — "  here  goes  !  " 

In  spite,  however,  of  its  benevolent  designation  I 
find  tl.is  French  pawnshop  in  no  way  disposed  to  gen- 
eiosity.  Even  the  most  hardened  London  pawn- 
broker could  hardly  be  more  niggard  in  appraisal  of 
my  silver  cigarette  c.ise  than  this  polite  Mont  d.- 
Pietist  who  offers  me  twenty  francs  on  it.  Twenty! 
it  is  worth  eighty :  but  my  French  is  too  rudimentary 
for  argument,  and  as  twenty  francs  is  not  enough  for 
my  purpose  I  draw  forth  with  a  sigh  my  precious  meer- 
schaum and  realise  another  five  francs  on  that. 

"What  does  it  matter?"  I  think  dolefully.  "'Til 
the  tide  turns  no  more  smoking.  After  all,  oh  mighty 
Nicotine,  am  I  thy  slave.^  Never!  Here  do  I  defy 
thee!  Oh,  little  pipe,  farewell!  We'll  meet  again,  I 
trust,  in  the  shatle  of  the  mazunm  tree." 

It   is   now  nearly   half-past   eleven,  and   already   the 


MUDDLE-HEADED  SANTA  (LAI'S       117 

Parisian  mind  is  turning  joyfully  to  thoughts  of  f/«- 
jcuner.  Portly  men,  to  whoni  eating  is  a  religion  an- 
spurring  appetite  with  aperitif.  Within  the  restau- 
rants many  have  already  lunched  on  a  sea  of  Graves  and 
gravy.  "  Be  it  ever  so  humble,"  I  decide,  "  There's 
no  cooking  like  *  Home.'  " 

With  which  sentiment  I  pause  before  a  little  shop 
devoted  to  the  sale  of  ladies'  furs,  iind  joyfully  regard 
the  object  of  my  journey.  It  is  a  large,  sleek,  glossy 
muff  of  the  material  known  as  electric  rabbit,  and  its 
price  is  twenty-five  francs.  It  just  matches  a  long 
wrap  of  Anastasia's,  rather  worn  out  but  still  nice 
looking. 

"  How  lucky  I  ran  across  it  yesterday !  "  I  think,  as 
I  hurry  joyfully  home  with  the  muff  under  my  arm. 
"  And  to-morrow's  Christmas  Day  too.  I  don't  mind 
giving  up  tobacco  one  bit." 

So  many  others  are  hastening  home  with  parcels 
under  their  arms!  Such  a  happy  Santa  Claus  spirit 
fills  the  air!  Every  one  seems  so  glad-e3ed  and  rosy. 
I  almost  feel  sorry  for  the  naked  cherubs  in  the  centre 
of  the  basin  in  the  Luxembourg.  Icicles  encase  them 
to  the  toes.  Poor  little  Amours  !  so  pretty  in  the  !!pring 
sunshine,  now  so  forlorn. 

How  quietly  I  let  myself  into  the  apartment,  I  am 
afraid  she  will  hear  my  key  scroop  in  the  lock  and 
run  as  usual  to  greet  me.  Softly  I  slip  into  the  bed- 
room and  pushing  the  parcel  into  the  suitcase  I  lock 
it  quickly.     Safe! 

"Little  Thing!"  I  shout,  but  there  is  no  reply. 

I  look  into  the  kitchen,  into  the  dining-room,  into 
the  cupboard  —  no  sign  of  her.  Yet  often  she  will 
hide  in  order  to  jump  out  on  me. 


118 


Tin:  I'RKTENDEH 


(( 
(( 


"  Come  out !  1  know  you're  there,"  I  cr^'  in  several 
corners.     No  Little  Thing. 

Then  I  n)ust  confess  I  begin  to  feel  just  a  wee  bit 
anxious;  when  cautiously  I  hear  another  key  scroop 
in  the  lock.  It  is  xVnastasia,  and  she  has  evidently  been 
walking  briskly  for  her  eyes  arc  radiant,  and  a  rosekaf 
colour  flutters  in  her  cheeks.  I  watch  her  steal  in 
just  as  I  have  done,  holding  behind  her  a  largish 
parcel. 

"Hullo!     What  have  you  got  there .^" 

She  jumps,  then  tries  to  conceal  the  package.  See- 
ing that  it  is  useless  she  turns  on  nic  imperiously. 

"  Go  away  one  moment !     Oh  go,  please !  " 
Tell  me  what's  in  your  parcel,  then." 
It's  nossing.     It's  not  your  affair.     Please  give  it 
tome.     Now  you  are  not  nice.     Oh  thanks!     Now  you 
are  nice.     To-morrow  I  show  you  what  it  is." 

So  I  leave  off  teasing  her  and  make  no  further  refer- 
ence to  the  mysterious  packet. 

There  is  no  doubt  the  Christmas  spirit  is  getting  into 
me,  for  I  find  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  keep  my 
mind  on  my  work.  This  is  distressing,  because  lately 
I  have  been  making  but  slow  progress.  Often  I  find 
myself  halting  ten  minutes  or  more  to  empale  some 
elusive  word.  Greatly  am  I  concerned  over  rhythm 
and  structure.  Of  ideas  I  have  no  lack;  it  is  form, 
form  that  holds  me  in  travail.  And  the  more  I  per- 
spire over  my  periods  the  more  self-exacting  I  seem  to 
become.  There  will  arrive  a  time,  I  fear,  when  my 
ideal  of  expression  will  be  so  high  I  will  not  be  able  to 
express  myself  at  all.  I  wonder  if  it  is  something  in 
tin  air  of  this  Paris  that  calls  to  all  that  is  fine  and  high 
in  the  soul.'' 


MUDDLE-HEADED  SANTA  (LAI'S       119 

After  supper  Anastasia  remarks  in  some  surprise: 
"  Why!  you  do  not  smoke  zis  hevening?  " 

"  No,  I'm  taking  a  rest.  It's  good  to  leave  off 
sometimes." 

She  seems  about  to  say  something  further,  but 
checks  herself.  Oh,  how  I  do  miss  that  after-dinner 
pipe!  Life  suddenly  seems  hollow  and  empty.  I  had 
always  sworn  that  the  best  part  of  a  meal  was  the  smoke 
after;  I  had  always  vowed  that  tobacco  added  twenty 
per  cent,  to  my  enjoyment  of  life,  and  now  — 

"  Little  Thing,"  I  say  presently,  "  let's  go  out  on 
the  boulevard.  I  can't  work  to-night.  It's  Christmas 
eve." 

She  responds  happily.  It  is  always  a  joy  to  her  to 
go  out   with   me. 

"  You'd  better  put  on  your  fur.     It's  awfully  cold." 

"  No,  I  don't  sink  so  this  hevening,  if  you  don't  mind. 
I  have  not  cold,  not  one  bit." 

As  we  emerge  from  the  gloom  of  the  rue  Mazarin  the 
river  leaps  at  us  in  a  blaze  of  glory.  Under  a  sk}'  of 
rosy  cloud  it  is  a  triumph  of  jewelled  vivacity.  Exul- 
tantly it  seems  to  mirror  all  the  radiance  of  the  city, 
and  the  better  to  display  its  jewels  it  undulates  in 
infinite  unrest.  Here  the  play  of  light  is  like  the  flut- 
tering of  a  thousand  argent-winged  moths,  there  a 
weaving  of  silver  foliage,  traversed  by  wriggling 
emerald  snakes.  Yonder  it  is  a  wimpling  of  purest 
platinum;  afar,  a  billowing  of  beaten  bronze.  Bridge 
beyond  bridge  is  jewel-hung,  and  coruscates  with  shift- 
ing fires.  The  little  steamers  drag  their  chains  of 
trembling  gold,  their  trains  of  rippling  ruby ;  even  the 
black  quays  seem  to  be  supported  on  undulant  pillars 
of  amber. 


lieo 


Tin:  i»ui:ti:ndeh 


Over  yondrr  on  tlu'  right  bank  the  great  Magasins 
overspill  their  radiance.  They  arc  like  huge  honey- 
combs of  hght,  nearly  all  window,  and  each  window 
H  square  of  molten  gold.  The  roaring  streets  flame  in 
fiery  dust,  and  flakes  of  gold  seem  to  quiver  skyward. 
Oh,  how  it  stirs  me,  this  Paris !  It  moves  me  to  delight 
and  despair.  To  think  that  I  can  feel  so  intensely  its 
wonder  and  beauty  yet  to  be  powerless  to  express  it. 
I  can  imagine  how  too  much  beauty  drives  to  mad- 
ness; how  the  Chinese  poet  was  drowned  trying  to 
clasp  the  silver   reflexion   of  the  moon. 

And  so  we  walk  along,  I  fathoms  deep  in  dream,  and 
the  little  grey  figure  by  my  side  trying  to  keep  pace 
with  me.  She,  too,  has  that  appreciation  of  beauty  and 
art  that  seems  innate  in  every  Parisienne,  yet  she 
cannot  understand  how  I  can  stare  at  a  scene  ten, 
fifteen,  twenty  minutes.  However,  she  is  very  patient, 
and  effaces  herself  most  happily. 

Never  have  I  seen  the  Boul'  Mich'  so  gay,  and  nearly 
all  are  carrying  parcels.  A  million  messengers  of 
Santa  Claus  arc  hastening  to  fill  with  delight  the  .yes 
of  innocence.  The  Pttit  Jesus  they  call  him  here,  these 
charming  Parisian  children.  Th-^'  preoiods  letters  to 
him,  placed  so  carefully  in  the  chimney,  are  often  wept 
over  by  mothers  in  estranging  after  years.  What  joy 
when  there  comes  an  answer  to  their  tiny  petitions! 
When  there  is  none :  "  Ah !  it  is  because  you  have 
not  been  wise,  Clairette.  The  Little  Jesus  is  not 
pleased  with  you."  But  the  Gift-bringer  always  re- 
lents, and  the  little  shoes,  brushed  by  each  tot  till  not 
a  speck  of  dulness  remains,  are  found  in  the  morning 
overspilling  with  glorious  things. 

All  along  the  outer  edge  of  the  pavement  stalls  have 


MUDDLE-HEADED  SANTA  (  LAUS       U\ 


been  set  up,  tenanted  by  portly,  red-faced  women,  who 
are  padded  against  the  cold  till  their  black-braided 
jackets  fit  tight  as  a  drum.  There  are  booths  of 
brilliant  confectionery,  of  manellous  mechanical  toys, 
of  perfumery  and  patent  medicines,  of  appliances  for 
the  kitchen  and  knirk-knacks  for  the  boudoir,  of  mu- 
sic, of  magnifying  glasses,  of  hair  restorer,  of  boot 
polish. 

And  the  street  hawkers  haranguing  the  crowd! 
There  are  vendors  of  holly  and  mistletoe ;  men  carrying 
umbrellas  all  stuck  over  with  imitation  snails  to  *  bring 
the  good  luck';  others  with  switches  to  spank  one's 
mother-in-law;  others  with  grotesque  spiders  on  wire 
to  make  the  girls  scream. 

It  is  nearly  midnight  when  we  reach  our  apartment. 
The  cafds  are  a  glitter  of  light  and  a  storm  of  revelry. 
The  supper  that  is  the  prelude  to  further  merriment  is 
just  beginning,  and  thousands  of  happy,  careless  peo- 
ple are  drinking  champagne,  shouting,  singing,  laugh- 
ing. But  the  rue  Mazarin  is  very  dark  and  quiet,  and 
the  girl  is  very  tired. 

Then  when  I  am  sure  that  she  is  asleep  I  steal  to  my 
suitcase  and  taking  out  the  precious  muff  lay  it  at  the 
foot  of  her  bed.  Bending  over  her,  as  she  sleeps  like  n 
child,  I  kiss  her.     So  I  too  fall  asleep. 

I  am  awftkened  by  her  scream  of  delight.  She  is 
sitting  up,  fondling  the  new  muff. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  please.  You  don't  know  how  I  am 
please,  darleen." 

'*  Oh,  it's  nothing.  Only  I  thought  it  would  go  nicely 
with  your  other  fur." 

Her  face  changes  oddly.  Then  she  rises  and  brings 
me  the  mysterious  parcel. 


MiH 


Tin:  PHKTENDER 


"  It's  your  Christmas.  I'm  sorrj-  I  could  not  geevc 
you  anysing  bettaire.     Oh,  how  I  love  my  muff." 

If  it  had  been  plucked  beaver  she  could  not  have 
been  more  pleased.  I  open  my  parcel  eagerly,  and  a 
fragrant  odour  greets  me.  It  is  a  silver-mounted 
tobacco  jar,  full  of  my  favourite  amber  flake. 

Over  our  petit  dejeuner  of  coffee  and  croissants  we 
are  both  very  gay.  I  decide  not  to  work  that  day ;  we 
will  go  for  a  walk. 

"Geeve  me  your  pipe,  darleen.     I  feel  it  for  you." 

"  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  find  it,"  I  answer,  search- 
ing my  pockets  elaborately. 

"  Vou  have  not  lost  it?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  just  mislaid  it.  Never  mind,  it  will  turn  up 
all  right.     Are  you  ready?" 

"  Yes,  all  ready."  She  holds  the  precious  muff  up  to 
her  chin,  peering  at  me  over  it, 

"  But  your  wrap !  Aren't  vou  going  to  put  that  on 
too.?" 

Then  In  fear  and  trembling  she  confesses.  She  has 
taken  her  fur  to  the  Mont  de  Piete  that  she  might  have 
ten  francs  to  buy  the  tobacco  jar. 

"  Why ! "  I  cry,  "  I  sold  my  pipe  so  that  I  might 
have  enough  to  buy  your  muff." 

Then  I  laugh  loudly,  and  after  a  little  she  joins  me; 
and  there  we  are  both  laughing  till  we  are  tired;  which 
is  not  the  worst  way  of  beginning  Christmas  Dav,  is 
it? 


CHAPTER  m 

THE  CITY  OF  LIGHT 

'*  Little  Thing,"   I   say   severely,  "  you  must  never 
say  '  Damn.'  " 

"  But  you  say  it,  d.irleen." 

"  Yes,  but  men  may  do  and  say  things  women  must 
not  even  think  of.  Say  *  Dash  '  if  you  want  to  say 
anything." 

"  Oh,  you  are  funny.  You  tell  me  1  must  not  say 
corteen  words  in  English,  yet  in  France  everybody  say 
'  Mon  Dieu.' " 

"  Yes,  it's  not  good  form  to  say  those  words  in 
English;  just  as  you  tell  me  in  France  in  polite 
society  one  never  refers  to  a  thousand  sacred  pigs. 
Profanity  is  to  some  extent  a  matter  of  geogra- 
phy." 

But  if  I  succeed  in  prohibiting  the  profanity  of  my 
country,  I  cannot  prevent  her  picking  up  its  slang. 
For  instance,  "  Sure  Mike  "  is  often  on  her  lips.  She 
has  heard  me  use  it,  and  it  resembles  so  much  her  own 
*•  Surement  "  that  she  naturally  and  innocently  adopts 
it.  I  tremble  now  when  she  speaks  English  before 
any  punctilious  stranger,  in  case,  to  some  polite  in- 
quiry, she  answers  with  an  enthusiastic :  "  Sure 
Mike." 

I  have  insisted  on  her  recovering  her  fur  from  the 

Mont  de  Piete,  and  she  in  her  turn  has  made  mc  buy  a 

long,  black  brigandish  cape  that  has  previously  been 

lis 


1^4 


Tin:   I'HETENDKH 


worn    by    some    budding    B.iiulclajrc    or    snuif   crubrvo 
Verlainc. 

"Seems  to  mo,"  I  grumble,  "now  I  have  this  thing 
I  might  as  well  get  one  of  those  bat-winged  ties,  and 
a  hat  with  a  six-inch  brim." 

"  Oh,  you  will  be  lovely  like  that,"  she  assures  me 
with  enthusiasm.  «  And  you  must  let  your  hair  grow 
long  like  hartist.     Oh,  how  chic  you  will  be!" 

"  Perhaps  you'd  also  like  me  to  "cultivate  an  Assyrian 
beard  and  curl  my  hair  into  ringlets  like  that  man  we 
sat  next  to  at  the  cafe  du  Dome  last  night." 

"No,  no:  I  do  not  want  that  you  hide  your  so  nice 
mouth,  darleen.     I  am  prefair  American  way  now." 

"  You   prefer  Americans  to  Frenchmen,  then." 

"All  French  girls  prefer  American  and  English  to 
Frenchmans.  They  are  so  frank,  so  honest.  One  can 
trust  them." 

"  So  you  would  rather  be  married  to  an  Englishman 
than  a  Frenchman  ?  " 

"Mon  Dieu!  yes.  The  Frenchmans  deceive  the 
womans  very  much,  but  the  Englishman  is  always 
comme  il  fait.  If  ever  1  have  leetle  girl  I  want  she 
shall  marry  Englishmans.  Ah!  she  shall  be  like  her 
fazzer,  that  ketle  girl,  wiz  blue  eyes,  and  colour  so 
fresh;  and  I  want  she  have  the  lovely  blond  hair  like 
all  English  children." 

"What  if  you  have  a  boy.''" 

"Ah  no!  I  no  want  boy.  I  know  I  am  selfeesh. 
The  boys  have  the  best  sings  in  the  life,  and  it  is  often 
hard  for  the  womans.  But  if  I  have  girl,  I  keep  her 
love  always.  If  I  have  boy  soon  I  lose  heem.  He  get 
marry,  and  zen  it  is  foenish.  But  leetle  girl,  in  trooble 
she  always  come  back  to  her  mosser." 


THE  CITY  OF  LIGHT 


1S5 


"And  suppose  you  don't  have  either?" 

"  Oh,  I  sink  zat  would  be  very,  very  sad." 

Often  hnve  I  murvelled  at  the  passion  for  maternity 
lliat  burns  in  Anastasia.  Her  eyes  shine  so  tenderly  on 
iliildron,  and  she  will  stop  to  caress  some  little  one  so 
yearningly. 

"  Hy  the  way,  have  you  ever  noticed  the  child  on  the 
^rround  floor  apartment.^  —  a  little  one  with  hair  the 
colour  of  honey." 

••  Oh  yes ;  she's  good  friend  of  me.  She  is  adorable. 
Oh  how  I  love  have  childs  like  zat.  She's  caK  Solonge. 
She's  belong  I'rosine." 

"Who's  Frosine.J>" 

"  She's  girl  what  sew  all  day.  bhe  work  for  the  Bon 
Marche.     It's  awfool  how  she  have  to  work  hard." 

"  Poor  woman  !  " 

"  Oh  no ;  she's  very  'appy  like  that.  She's  free,  and 
she  have  Solonge.  She  sing  all  day  win.  she  sew. 
Oh,  she  have  much  of  courage,  much  of  n  It,  that 
girl." 

"  But,"  I  say,  "  would  vou  like  to  have  a  child  like 
that?" 

"  Why  not,  if  I  can  care  well  for  it  and  it  make  me 
'appy?" 

'•  But  —  it  wouldn't  be  moral." 

"  No,  but  it  would  be  natural." 

"•Yes,  but  sometimes  isn't  it  wicked  to  be  natural?" 

"  I  do  not  understand.  I  do  not  sink  Frosine  is 
wicked.  Sh  's  so  kind  and  gently.  She  adore  Solonge. 
She's  brave.  All  day  she  work  and  sing.  You  do  not 
sink  she  is  all  bad  because  she  have  childs?" 

I  did  not  immediately  reply.     I  am  wondering.  .  .  . 

Have  social  conditions  reached  a    very  lofty  status 


126 


THE  piu:ti:m)i:u 


f'vcn  yt't  wlu'n  tlie  finest,  triiist  instincts  implanted 
in  liuniankinci  are  often  denied?  Does  not  life  mean 
effort,  progress,  human  triumph?  Can  we  not  look 
forward  to  a  better  time  wlicn  pi  .t  manifestly  im- 
perfect conditions  will  be  ])erfecti.  . 

"Yes,  Anastasia,"  I  conclude;  "the  greatest  man 
timt  ever  lived  should  take  off  his  hat  to  the  humblest 
mother,  for  slic  has  accomplished  something  he  never 
could  if  lie  lived  to  be  a  thousand.  3ut  come !  Let's 
go  out  on  the  Grand  Boulevard.  I've  been  working 
too  hard;  I'm  fagged,  I'm  stale,  there's  a  fog  about  my 
brain." 

Very  proudly  slie  dons  lier  furs  of  electric  rabbit,  and 
rather  ruefully'  I  wreathe  myself  in  my  conspiratorial 
cloak  ;  then  together  we  go  down  into  the  city. 

The  City  of  Light !  Is  there  another,  I  wonder,  that 
flaunts  so  superbly  the  triumph  of  man  over  darkness? 
From  the  Mount  of  Paniassus  to  the  Mount  of  the 
MartjTs  all  is  a  valley  of  light.  The  starry  sky  is 
mocked  by  the  starry  city,  its  milky  way,  a  river 
gleaming  with  gold,  shimmering  with  silver,  spangled 
with  green  and  garnet.  The  Place  de  la  Concorde  is  a 
very  lily  garden  of  light;  up  the  jewtlKd  sweep  of  the 
Champs  Elysee  the  lights  are  like  sheeny  pearls  with 
here  and  there  the  exquisite  intrusion  of  a  ruby ;  be- 
neath a  tremulous  radiance  of  opals  the  trees  are  bathed 
in  milkj  light,  while  amid  the  twinkling  groves  the 
night  restaurants  arc  sketched  in  fairy  gold.  The 
Grand  Boulevards  are  fiery-walled  canyons  down  which 
roar  tumultuous  rivers  of  light ;  the  Place  de  I'Opera 
is  a  great  eddy,  flashing  and  myriad-gemmed;  the 
magasins  are  blazing  furnaces  erupting  light  at  every 


THE  C  ITV  01"  LKiHT 


127 


point :  They  arc  festooned  with  flame ;  they  are 
crnnuned  with  golden  lustre ;  they  blaze  their  victorious 
refulgence  in  signs  of  light  against  the  sky.  And  so 
night  after  night  this  city  of  sovereign  splendour 
hurls  in  flashing  light  its  gauntlet  of  deflancc  to  the 
Dark. 

The  pavements  are  packed  with  people,  moving 
slowly  in  opposing  streams.  Most  are  garbed  in  cere- 
monial best;  and  manv  carry  flowers,  for  this  is  the 
sacred  day  of  family  gathering.  The  pavement  edge 
is  lined  with  tiny  booths  and  shrill  with  importunate 
clamour. 

We  stop  to  gaze  at  some  of  the  mechanical  toys. 
Here  are  aeroplanes  that  whirl  around,  peacocks  that 
strut  and  scream,  rabbits  that  hop  and  squeak,  shoe- 
blacks, barbers,  acrobats,  jugglers,  all  engaged  in  their 
various  ways.  But  what  amuses  us  most  is  a  little 
sirvant  maid  who  walks  forward  in  a  great  hurry  car- 
rying a  pile  of  plates,  trips,  sends  them  scattering,  then 
herself  falls  sprawling.  How  I  laugh!  Yet  I  am  at 
the  same  time  laughing  at  myself  for  laughing.  Am  I 
going  back  to  my  second  childhood?  No!  for  see;  all 
those  bearded  Frenchmen  are  laughing  too,  just  like 
so  many  grown-up  children. 

"  Come,"  I  suggest,  after  we  have  ranged  along  a 
mile  or  so  of  these  tiny  booths,  "  let's  sit  down  in 
front  of  one  of  the  cafes." 

With  difliculty  we  find  a  place,  and  ordering  two 
cafes  crime  watch  the  dense  procession.  The  honest 
bourgeois  are  going  to  New  Year's  Dinner,  and  their 
smiles  are  very  happy.  Soon  they  will  frankly  aban- 
don themselves  to  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  discussing 


1^8 


THE  PRETENDER 


cuch  dish  with  rapture  and  outing  till  they  can  eat  no 
more. 

"  What  a  race  of  gluttons  art  the  French,"  I  remark 
severely  to  Ana.stasia.  "  Food  and  dress  is  about  all 
they  seem  to  think  of.  The  other  day  I  read  in  the 
paper  that  a  celebrated  costumier  had  received  the 
cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  and  this  morning  I  sec 
that  a  well-known  restaurateur  has  also  been  deemed 
w  orthy  of  the  decoration.  There  you  are !  Reward 
your  tailors  and  your  cooks  while  your  poets  and  your 
painters  go  buttonless.  Oli,  if  there's  a  people  I  de- 
spise, it's  one  that  makes  a  god  of  its  stomach !  By  the 
way,  what  have  we  got  for  dinner?  " 

-'  Oh,  1  got  chickens." 

"  A  good  fat  one,  I  hope." 

"  Yes,  nice  fat  chickens.  I  pay  five  franc  for  it. 
You  are  not  sorry  ?  " 

"  No,  that's  all  I'ight.  We  can  make  it  do  two 
evenings,  and  we  allow  ourselves  five  francs  a  day  for 
grub.  I  fancy  we  don't  spend  even  that,  on  an  aver- 
age?" 

"  No,  about  four  and  half  franc." 

Every  week  she  brought  her  expense  book  to  me, 
and  very  solemnly  I  wrote  beneath  it:  Examined  and 
found  correc*^.  Another  habit  was  to  present  for  my 
approval  a  menu  of  all  our  meals  for  the  coming  week 
beneath  which  I  would,  in  the  same  serious  spirit, 
write:  Approved.  To  these  impressive  occasions  she 
contributed  a  proper  dignity ;  yet  at  a  hint  of  praise 
for  her  house-keeping  nothing  could  exceed  her  delight. 

Presently  we  rise  and  continue  our  walk.  Every- 
where is  the  same  holiday  spirit,  the  same  easily  amused 
crowd.     There  are  song  writers  hawking  their  ditties, 


THE  CITY  OF  LIGHT 


129 


poor  artists  peddling  their  paintings,  a  "  canvas  fjr  a 
crust."     Evtry  ncodv  art  is  gleaning  on  the  streets. 

"  Stop ! "  she  cries  suddenly.  Drawing  me  in  the 
(lirtction  of  a  small  crowd:  "let's  watch  the  silhouette 
man." 

He  is  young,  glih,  good-looking.  He  has  audacious 
tves  and  a  rapscallion  smile.  This  smile  is  sometimes 
positively  impish  in  its  mockery;  yet  otherwise  he  is 
ratlur  like  a  cheruh.  His  complexion  is  pinkish,  his 
iiD.iirur  mercurial,  his  figure  shapely  and  slim.  He 
is  dressed  in  the  cloak,  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  volu- 
minous velveteen  trowsers  of  the  rapin.  I  stare  at 
him.      Something  vaguely  familiar  in  him  startles  me. 

In  one  hand  he  holds  a  double  sheet  of  black  paper, 
in  the  other  a  pair  of  scissors.  For  a  moment  he  looks 
keenly  at  his  subject,  then  getting  the  best  angle  for 
the  profile,  proceeds  without  any  more  ado  to  cut  the 
silhouette.  It  is  a  very  deft,  delicate  performance  and 
all  over  in  a  minute. 

"Just  watch  him,  Anastasia,"  I  say  after  a  pause; 
"  I  think  there's  something  interesting  going  to  hap- 
pen."    Then  in  a  drawling  voice  I  remark : 

"  Well,  if  that's  not  a  dead  ringer  for  Livewire  Lor- 


j  imer : 


t  '> 


He  liears  me,  looks  up  like  a  flash,  scrutinises  me  in 
a  puzzled  way. 

"  I  haven't  heard  that  name  for  fifteen  years.  Of 
all  the  —  why,  if  it  isn'l  Jimmy  Madden,  Mad  Mad- 
den, Blackbeard  the  pirate.  Red  Hand  the  scout,  friend 
of  my  boyhood !  I  say !  there's  a  dozen  people  waiting 
and  this  is  my  busy  day.  Ask  your  friend  to  stand 
up  tn  the  light  and  I'll  make  a  silhouette  of  her  while 
we  talk." 


»  u 


i  ,' 


130 


THE  PRETENDER 


"My  wife." 

"  Hless  us !  Married  too !  Well,  congratulations. 
Churiiied  to  meet   Madame.     There!     Just  stand  so." 

U'ith  great  dexterity  he  proceeds  to  cut  Anastasia's 
delicate  features  on  the  black  paper. 

"  Great  Scott !  I  haven't  heard  a  word  about  you 
since  I  left  home.  But  then  I've  lost  track  o:  all  the 
crowd.  Well,  what  in  the  world  are  you  doinir 
here?" 

"  I'm  trying  to  break  into  the  writing  game.     And 

you  ?  " 

"  For  ten  years  I've  been  trying  to  become  an  artist. 
Occasionally  I  get  enough  to  eat.  I  have  to  work  for  a 
living,  as  you  see  at  present;  but  when  I  get  a  little 
ahead  I  go  back  to  my  art.     Where  do  you  live.'  " 

I  tell  him. 

"  Oh,  I  know,  garden  and  statuary  in  the  court.  I 
lived  in  that  street  myself  for  a  time,  but  my  landlord 
and  I  did  not  agree.  He  had  ridiculous  ideas  on  the 
subject  of  rent.  My  idea  of  rent  is  money  you  owe. 
He  was  so  prejudiced  that  one  night  I  lowered  all  my 
effects  to  a  waiting  friend  with  a  voiture  a  bras,  and 
since  then  rue  Mazarin  has  seen  little  of  me.  But  I'd 
like  to  come  and  see  you.     We'll  talk  over  old  days." 

"  Yes,  I  do  wish  you  would  come." 

"  I  will.  Ah,  Madame,  here  is  your  charming  pro- 
file. I  only  regret  that  my  clumsy  scissors  fail  to  do 
you  justice.  Yes,  Madden,  I'll  come.  And  now,  if 
you'll  excuse  me,  there's  a  dozen  people  waiting.  I 
must  make  my  harvest  while  the  sun  shines.  Good-bye, 
just  now.     Expect  me  soon." 

He  waves  us  an  airy  farewell,  and  a  moment  after, 
wilh  the  same  intent  gaze,  he  is  following  the  features 


THE  CITY  OF  LIGHT 


181 


of  A  fat  Frenchwoman,  who  laughs  immoderately  at  his 
pleasantries. 

We  walk  home  almost  without  speaking.  Anastasia 
has  got  into  the  way  of  respecting  my  thoughts.  To 
her  I  am  Balzac,  Hugo  and  Zola  rolled  into  one,  and 
labelled  James  Horace  Madden.  Who  is  she  that 
should  break  in  on  the  dreams  of  this  great  author.' 
Rather  let  her  foster  them  by  sympathetic  silence.  Yet 
on  this  occasion  she  looks  up  in  my  face  and  sighs 
wistfully: 

"What  arc  you  sinking  of,  darleen.''" 

Now,  here^a  ichat  I  think  she  thinks  I  am  thinking: 

"  Oh,  this  fiery,  fervid  Paris,  how  can  my  pen  pro- 
claim its  sovereignty  over  cities,  its  call  to  high  endeav- 
our, its  immemorial  grace?  How  can  1  paint  its 
folly  and  its  faith,  its  laughter  and  its  te;  ♦^,  its  streets 
where  tragedy  and  farce  walk  arm  in  arm,  where 
parody  hobnobs  with  pride,  and  beauty  bends  to  ridi- 
cule !  Oh,  exquisite  Paris !  so  old  and  yet  so  eter- 
nally j'oung,  so  peerless,  yet  ever  prinking  and  preen- 
ing to  make  more  exorbitant  demands  on  our  admira- 
tion. .  .  ."     And  so  on. 

Here's  what   I  am   really   thinking: 

**  Funny  I  should  run  into  Livewire  like  that.  To 
think  of  it !  We  swapped  the  same  dime  novels,  robbed 
the  same  cherry  trees.  Together  we  completed  for  the 
bo  am  place  in  the  class.  (I  think  I  generally  won.) 
By  pedagogic  standards  we  were  certainly  impossible. 
And  yet  at  some  studies  how  precocious!  How  I  re- 
member that  novel  I  w  rote,  The  Corsair's  Crime,  or  the 
Hound  of  the  Hcllispont,  illustrated  by  Livewire  on 
every  page.  Oh.  I'd  give  a  hundred  dollars  to  have 
that  manuscript  to-day ! "  «nd  so  on. 


132 


THE  PRETENDER 


Here's  what  I  nay  I  am  tn'mking: 
'*  I  wfts  wondtring,  Anastasia,  if  when  jou  I)ouglit 
that  chicken,  vou  let  them  clean  it  in  the  shop.  Because 
if  you  do  thej  just  take  it  away  and  bring  you  hack 
an  inferior  one.  You  can't  trust  them.  You  should 
clean  it  yourself.  Be  sure  you  roast  it  gently,  so  as  to 
have  it  nicely  browned  all  over.  .  .  ."     And  so  on. 

It  is  night  now  and  I  am  working  on  my  articles  while 
she  sews  steadily.  It  has  been  a  long  silent  evening, 
a  fire  of  houlets  throws  out  a  gentle  heat,  and  she  sits  on 
one  side,  I  on  the  other.  About  ten  o'clock  she  com- 
plains of  feeling  tired,  and  decides  to  go  to  bed.  After 
our  habit  I  lie  down  on  my  own  bed,  to  wait  with  her 
till  she  goes  to  sleep;  for  she  is  just  like  a  child  in  some 
ways.  I  am  reading,  and  the  better  to  see,  I  lie  with 
my  head  where  my  feet  should  be. 

As  she  is  dropping  off  to  sleep,  suddenly  she  says: 
"Will  you  let  me  hold  your  foot,  darken?" 
"  Yes,  it's  there.     But  if  you  want  to  look  for  holes 
in  the  sock,  you  won't  find  any." 


I  just  want  to  pretend  it's  leetle 


"  No,  it's  not  zat. 
hcher 

"  So  she  holds  it  close  to  her  breast,  and  ever  since 
then  she  will  not  sleep  unless  she  is  holding  what  she 
calls  '  her  poupee.*  " 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  CITY  OF  LAIGHTEU 

The  last  few  weeks  have  passed  so  swiftly  I  scarce  can 
credit  it.  In  the  mornings  my  vitalising  walks ;  in 
the  afternoons  my  lapidary  work  in  prose.  I  have 
hegun  a  series  of  articles  on  Paris,  and  have  just 
finished  the  first  two,  bestowing  on  them  a  world  of 
loving  care.  Never  have  I  known  such  a  steady  glow 
of  inspiration.  A  pure  delight  in  form  and  colour 
thrills  in  me.  I  begin  to  see  beauty  in  the  commonest 
things,  to  find  a  joy  in  the  simplest  moments  of  living. 

It  is  rather  curious,  this.  For  instance,  I  gaze  in 
rapture  at  a  shop  where  vegetables  are  for  sale,  charmed 
with  its  oasis  of  fresh  colouring  in  the  grey  street, 
the  globular  gold  of  turnips,  the  rich  ruby  of  radishes, 
the  ivory  white  of  parsnips.  Then  a  fish  shop  charms 
me,  and  I  turn  from  the  burning  orange  of  the  dories 
to  the  olive  and  pearl  of  the  merlin;  from  the  jewelled 
mail  of  the  mackerel,  to  the  silver  cuirass  of  the  her- 
ring. And  every  day  seems  fresh  to  me.  I  hail  it  with 
a  newborn  joy.  I  seem  to  have  regained  all  the  wonder 
and  vital  interest  of  the  child  point  of  view.  In  my 
work,  especially,  do  I  find  such  a  delight  that  I  shall 
be  sorry  to  die  chiefly  because  it  will  end  my  labour. 
"  So  much  to  do,"  I  sigh,  "  and  only  one  little  lifetime 
to  do  it  in." 

Then  there   are  long,  serene  evenings  by   the  fire, 

where   I  ponder  over  my  prose,  while  Anastasia   sits 

absorbed  in  her  work.     What  a  passion  she  has  for  her 

133 


184 


THE  PRKTENDER 


nej'dlt!  Slie  plies  it  as  an  nrtist,  delighting  in  diffi- 
culties, in  intricate  lacework,  in  elaborate  embroidery. 
In  litth-  s(piares  of  fine  net  she  works  scenes  from 
Fontaine;  or  else  over  a  great  frame  on  which  a  sheet 
of  satin  is  tightly  stretched,  she  makes  wonderful  de- 
signs in  silks  of  delicate  colouring.  At  such  times  she 
will  forget  everything  else,  and  sit  for  hours  tranquilly 
happy.  So  I  write  and  dream;  while  she  plies  that 
exquisite  needle,  and  perhaps  dreams  too. 

"  Oh,  how  good  it  is  to  be  poor ! "  I  said  last  night. 
"  What  a  new  interest  life  takes  on  when  one  has  to 
fight  for  one's  bread!  How  much  better  to  have  noth- 
ing and  want  everything,  than  to  have  everything  and 
want  nothing!  Just  think,  Little  Thing,  how  pleased 
wc  are  at  the  end  of  the  week  if  we've  spent  five  francs 
less  than  we  thought!  Here's  a  month  gone  now  and 
I've  done  four  articles  and  a  story,  and  wc  still  have 
three  hundred  francs  left." 

"When  it  will  be  that  you  will  send  them  to  the 
journjils?  " 

"  Oh,  no  hurry,  I  want  to  stack  up  a  dozen,  and  then 
ril  start  shooting  them  in." 

"  We  have  saved  four  francs  and  half  last  week." 

'*  The  deuce  we  have !  Then  let's  go  to  Bullier  to- 
night. We  both  want  a  touch  of  gay  life.  Come! 
we'll  watch  Paris  laugh." 

So  we  climbed  the  Boul'  Mich',  till  at  its  head  in 
a  crescent  of  light  we  saw  the  name  of  the  famous  old 
dance-hall.  Threading  our  way  amid  the  little  green 
tables,  past  the  bowling  alley  and  the  bar,  we  found 
a  place  in  the  side  gallery. 

Wo  were  looking  down  on  a  scene  of  the  maddest 
gaiety.     The  great  floor  was  dense  with  dancers  and 


THE  CITY  OF  LAUGHTER 


135 


kaleidoscopic  in  colouring.  In  tlu-  wildest  of  spirits 
five  liundrod  imn  and  girls  were  capering,  shuffling,  jig- 
ging and  contorting  their  b-  'ies  in  time  to  tumultuous 
music.  Some  danced  limb  to  limb,  others  were  bent 
out  like  a  bow ;  some  sidled  like  a  crab,  others  wriggled 
like  an  eel;  some  walked,  some  leaped,  some  slid,  some 
merely  kicked  sideways:  it  was  dancing  in  delirium, 
Hedlam  in  the  ball-room. 

And  what  conflicting  colours?  Here  a  girl  in  lob- 
ster pink  galloped  with  another  whose  costume  was  like 
mayonnaise.  There  a  negress  in  brilliant  scarlet  with 
a  corsage  of  silver  darted  through  the  crowd  like  a 
riame.  A  hideous  negro  was  dancing  with  a  pretty 
grisette  who  with  fluffy  hair  and  flushed  cheeks  looked 
at  him  adoringly  as  he  pawed  her  with  his  rubber-blue 
palms.  An  A.Tierican  girl  in  shirt  waist  and  bicycle 
skirt  /ig-zagged  in  and  out  with  a  dashing  Spaniard. 
A  tall,  bashful  Englishman  pranced  awkwardly  around 
with  a  midinette  in  citron  and  cerise,  while  a  gentleman 
from  China  solemnly  gyrated  with  a  mannequin  in  pis- 
tachio and  chocolate.  Pretty  girls  nearly  all;  and 
where  they  lacked  in  looks,  full  of  that  sparkling  Pari- 
sian charm. 

"  There's  your  friend,  Monsieur  Livwir,"  said  Anas- 
tasia  suddenly.  Sure  enough,  there  in  that  maelstrom 
of  merriment  I  saw  Lorrimer  dancing  with  a  girl  of 
dazzling  prettiness.  Presently  I  caught  his  eye  and 
after  the  dance  he  joined  us. 

"  You  haven't  been  to  see  me  yet,"  I  remarked. 

"  No,  been  too  busy, —  working  every  moment  of  my 
time."  Then  realising  that  the  present  moment  rather 
belied  him  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

To  tell  the  truth  I  have  been  feeling  a  little  hurt. 


1S6 


THE  PRETENDER 


We  sentimentalists  are  so  prone  to  measure  others  by 
our  own  standards.  Our  meeting,  so  interesting  to 
me,  had  probably  never  given  him  another  thought. 
Now  I  saw  that  while  I  was  an  egoist,  Lorrimer  was  an 
egotist ;  but  with  one  of  his  boyish  smiles  he  banished 
my  resentment. 

"Let  me  introduce  you  to  Rougette,"  he  said  airily; 
"  she's  my  model." 

He  beckoned  to  the  tall  blonde.  Rarely  have  I  seen 
a  girl  of  more  distracting  prettiness.  Her  hair  was 
of  ashen  gold;  Parma  violets  might  have  borrowed  their 
colour  from  her  eyes;  Nice  roses  might  have  copied 
their  tint  from  her  cheeks,  and  her  tall  figure  was  of 
a  willowy  grace.  Her  manner  had  all  the  winning 
charm  of  frank  simplicity.  She  was  indeed  over  pretty, 
one  of  those  girls  who  draw  eyes  like  a  magnet,  so  that 
the  poor  devil  who  adores  them  has  little  peace. 
^    "The  belle  of  all  Brittany,"  said  Lorrimer  proudly. 

I  discovered  her  when  I  was  sketching  at  Pont  Aven 
last  summer.  !'„,  going  to  win  the  Prix  de  Rome  with 
a  picture  of  that  girl.  Vm  the  envy  of  the  Quarter. 
Several  Academicians  have  tried  to  get  her  away  from 
me;  but  she's  loyal,— as  good  as  she  looks." 

I  did  not  find  it  easy  to  talk  to  Rougette.  Her 
French  was  the  argot  of  the  Quarter,  grafted  on  to 
the  patois  of  the  Breton  peasant;  mine,  of  the  school 
primer.  Our  conversation  consisted  chiefly  of  smiles, 
and  circumspect  ones  at  that,  as  Anastasia  had  her  eye 
on  me. 

"  After  another  dance,"  suggested  Lorrimer,  "  let's 
go  over  to  the  Lilas.  We'll  probably  see  Helstem 
there.     I'd    like   you    to    meet    him.     Besides    it's    the 


THE  CITY  OF  LAUGHTER 


187 


night    the    Parnassian    crowd    get    together.     Perhaps 
you'll  be  amused." 
"Delighted." 
"All   right." 

Off  they  went  with  their  arms  around  each  other's 
necks,  and  I  watched  them  swiftly  mingle  with  the 
dancers.  What  a  pretty  couple  they  made  !  —  Lorrimer 
so  dashing  and  debonair,  with  his  face  of  a  sophisticated 
cherub,  jaid  his  auburn  hair  that  looked  as  if  it  might 
have  been  enamelled  on  his  head,  so  smooth  was  it; 
Rougette  with  the  mien  of  a  goddess  and  the  simple 
soul  of  a  Breton  fishwife. 

But  it  was  hard  to  follow  them  now,  for  tlie  throng 
on  the  floor  had  doubled.  In  ranks  that  reached  to 
the  side  galleries  the  spectators  hemmed  them  in.  The 
variety  of  costume  grew  more  and  more  bewildering. 
Men  were  dressed  as  women,  women  as  men.  Four 
monks  entered  arm  in  arm  with  four  devils;  Death 
(lanced  with  Spring,  an  Incroyable  with  a  stone-age 
nan,  an  Apache  with  a  Salome.  More  and  more 
th'f/lige  grew  the  costumes  as  models,  mannequins,  mil- 
lii  rrs,  threw  aside  encumbering  garments.  Every  one 
was  getting  wound  up.  Yells  and  shrieks  punctuated 
the  hilarity;  then  the  great  orchestra  burst  into  a  pop- 
ular melody  and  every  one  took  up  the  chorus: 

"  Down  in  Mozambique,  Mozambique,  Mozambique, 
It's  so  chic,  oh  so  chic; 
No  need  to  bother  over  furs  and  frills, 
Xo  need  to  worry  over  tailor's  bills; 
Down  in  Mozambique.  Mozaml)ique,  Mozambique, 
You  may  wear  flg-Ieaves  there 
When  you  go  a-mashing  in  the  open  air 
ill  Mo-zaui-bique." 


S 


138 


THE  PRETENDER 


As  they  finislicd  men  tossed  their  parlners  in  the  air 
and  carried  them  off  the  floor.  Every  one  was  hot  and 
dish<viHed:  the  air  reeked  of  pachouli  and  perspira- 
tion,  and  seeing  Lorrimer  signalling  to  us  we  made  our 
escape. 

I  remember  how  dehViously  pure  seemed  the  outside 
air.  The  long  tree-clad  Avenue  de  I'Observatoire  was 
blanched  with  hoar  frost  and  gleamed  whitely.  The 
face  of  the  sky  was  pitted  with  stars,  and  the  crescent 
moon  seemed  to  scratch  it  like  the  manicured  nail-tip 
of  a  lovely  woman.  Across  the  street  amid  the  trees 
beaconed  the  lights  of  a  large  corner  caf«:>,  and  to  this 
we  made  our  way. 

A  long  room,  lined  with  tables,  dim  with  tobacco 
smoke,  clamorous  with  conversation.  We  found  a  va- 
cant table,  and  Lorrimer,  after  consulting  us,  ordered 

ham  sandveeches  ct  grog  American."  In  the  mean- 
time I  was  busy  gazing  at  the  human  oddities  around 
me.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  freaks  of  the  Quarter  had 
gathered  here.  Nearly  all  wore  their  hair  of  eccentric 
length.  Some  had  it  thrown  back  from  the  brow  and 
falling  over  the  collar  in  a  cascade.  Others  parted 
It  m  the  middle  and  let  it  stream  down  on  either  side, 
hiding  their  ears.  Some  had  it  cut  square  to  the  neck, 
and  coming  round  in  two  flaps;  with  others  again  it  was 
fuzzy  and  stood  up  like  a  nimbus.  Many  of  the  women, 
on  the  other  hand,  had  it  cut  squarely  In  the  Egyptian 
manner ;  so  tliat  it  was  difficult  to  tell  them  at  a  distance 
from  their  male  companions. 

"  It's  really  a  fact,"  said  Lorrimer,  «  that  long  hair 
IS  an  aid  to  inspiration.  Every  time  I  cut  mine  it's 
good-bye  work  till  it  grows  again.  And  as  I  reallv 
bate  it  long  my  work  suffers  horribly." 


THE  CITY  OF  LAUGHTER 


139 


The  centre  of  attraction  seemed  to  be  a  tall  man 
whose  sallow  face  was  framed  in  inky  hair  that  de- 
tached itself  in  snaky  locks.  As  if  to  accentuate  the 
ravenish  effect  he  wore  an  immense  black  silk  stock,  and 
his  pince-nez  dangled  by  a  black  riband.  This  was 
Paul  Ford,  the  Prince  of  the  Poets,  the  heritor  of  the 
mantle  of  Verlaine. 

"There's  a  futurist  poet,"  said  Lorrimer,  pointing 
to  a  man  in  a  comer  who  had  evidently  let  his  comb 
fall  behind  the  bureau  and  been  too  lazy  to  go  after 
it.  He  had  a  peaked  face  overwhelmed  by  stringy 
hair,  with  which  his  beard  and  whiskers  made  such 
an  intimate  connection  that  all  you  could  see  was  a 
wedge  of  nose  and  two  pale-blue  eyes  gleaming  through 
the  tangle. 

"  See  that  man  to  the  right,"  went  on  my  informer; 
"  that's  the  cubist  sculptor,  a  Russian  Jew." 

The  sculptor  looked  indeed  like  a  mujic,  with  coarse, 
spiky  hair  growing  down  over  his  forehead,  eyebrows 
that  mad«  one  arch  over  his  fierce  little  eyes,  upturned 
nose,  a  beard  and  moustache,  which,  divided  by  his 
mouth,  looked  exactly  like  a  scrubbing-brush  the  centre 
of  which  has  been  rubbed  away  by  long  usage. 

"Look!  There's  an  Imagist  releasing  some  of  his 
inspirations." 

This  was  a  meagre  little  man  in  evening  dress,  with 
a  bony  skull  concealed  by  the  usual  mop  of  hair.  He 
had  a  curiously  elongated  face,  something  like  a  horse, 
the  eyes  of  a  seraph,  the  shell-like  colour  of  a  con- 
sumptive, large,  vividly-red  lips,  and  an  ineffable  smile 
which  exposed  a  small  cemetery  of  decayed  teeth. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Lorrimer  suddenly :  "  see  that  chap  sit- 
ting lonely  in  the  comer  with  his  arms  folded  and  a 


140 


THE  PRETENDER 


sort  of  Strindberp-Xictzsolie-Ibsen  expression?     Well, 
that's  Htlsteni." 

I  saw  a  tall,  voungish-oldish  sort  of  man  with  a  face 
of  distinguished  taciturnity.  His  mouth  was  grimly 
clinchfd;  two  vertical  lines  were  written  between  his 
eyebrows,  and  a  very  high  forehead  was  further  height- 
ened by  upstanding  iron-grey  hair.  On  the  other  hand 
his  brown  eyes  were  soft,  velvety  and  shy.  He  was 
(Iressed  in  dead  black,  with  a  contrast  of  very  white 
linen.  Close  to  his  elbow  stood  a  great  stein  of  beer, 
whde  he  puffed  slowly  from  a  big  wooden  pipe  carved 
into  a  fantastic  Turk's  head. 

"Poor  old  Hclstern!"  said  Lorrimer;  "he  takes 
life  so  seriously.  Take  life  seriously  and  you're  going 
to  get  it  in  the  neck :  laugh  at  it  and  it  can  never  hurt 
you." 

This  was  his  gay  philosophy,  as  indeed  it  was  of  the 
careless  and  merry  Quarter  he  seemed  to  epitomise. 
Treat  everything  in  a  cynical  and  mocking  spirit,  and 
you  yourself  arc  beyond  the  reach  of  irony.  It  is  so 
much  easier  to  destroy  than  to  build  up.  Yet  there  was 
something  tart  and  stimulating  in  his  scorn  of  things 
as  they  are. 

"Too  bad  to  drag  him  from  sublime  heights  of 
abstraction  down  to  our  common  level.  Doesn't  he 
look  like  a  seer  trying  to  discern  through  the  anarchy 
of  the  present  some  hope  for  the  future.?  Well,  Pll 
go  over  and  see  if  he'll  join  us.     He's  shy  with  women." 

So  the  Cynic  descended  on  the  Seer,  and  the  Seer 
listened,  drank,  smoked  thoughtfully,  looked  covertly 
»•'.  the  two  girls,  then  rose  and  approached  us.  With 
a  shock  of  pity  I  saw  tliiit  one  of  his  legs  was  shorter 
than  the  otlip r,  and  terminated  in  a  club  foot.     Other- 


THE  CITY  OF  LAUGHTER  Ul 

wise  he  was  splendidly  developed,  and  had  one  of  the 
(icepest  bass  voices  I  have  ever  heard. 
"  Well,  old  man,  alone  as  usual." 

Somewhat  self-conscious  and  embarrassed,  Helstern 
spoke  rather  stiffly. 

"  My  dear  Lorrimer,  much  as  I  appreciate  your 
charmmg  society  there  are  moments  when  I  prefer  to  be 
alone." 

"Oh,  I  understand.  Great  thoughts  incubated  in 
silence.  Own  up  now,  weren't  you  thinking  in  na- 
tions."" 

"  As  it  happens,"  answered  the  Seer  in  his  irrave 
penetrating  tones,  "  I  was  thinking  in  nations.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  I  was  listening  to  the  conversation  of 
two  Englishmen  near  me." 

He  paused  to  light  his  pipe  carefully,  then  went  on 
in  that  deep,  deliberate  voice. 

"They  were  talking  of  International  Peace  — 
fools ! " 

"  Oh,  come  now !  You  believe  in  International 
1  eace.''  " 

He  stared  gloomily  into  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 
Bah !  a  chimera !  futile  babble !  No,  no ;  there  are 
oo  many  o  d  scores  to  settle,  too  many  wrongs  to  right, 
too  many  blood  feuds  to  be  fought  to  a  finish.  But 
there  will  be  International  War  such  as  the  world  has 
never  seen.  And  why  not."  We  are  becoming  a  race 
of  egotists,  civilisation's  mollycoddles ;  we  set  far  too 
high  a  value  on  our  lives.  Oh,  I  will  hate  to  see  the 
day  when  grand  old  war  will  cease,  when  we  will  have 
the  hearts  of  women,  and  the  splendid  spirit  of  revenge 
u  ill  have  passed  away  !  "  * 

''Don't  listen   to   him,"   said   Lorrimer:   "he  isn't 


I  J 


142 


THE  PRETENDER 


so  bloodthirsty  as  he  sounds.  He  wouldn't  harm  a  fly. 
He's  actually  a  vegetarian.  What  work  are  you  doing 
now,  you  old  fraud .''  " 

Helstem  looked  round  in  that  shy  self-conscious  way 
of  his : 

"  I'm  working  oa  an  allegorical  group  for  the  Salon." 

"  What's  the  subject?  " 

"  Well,  if  I  must  confess  it,  it's  International  Peace. 
Of  course,  it's  absurd;  but  the  only  consolation  for 
living  in  this  execrable  world  is  that  one  can  dream  of  a 
better  one.  To  dream  of  beauty  and  to  create  accord- 
ing to  his  dream,  that  is  the  divine  privilege  of  the 
artist." 

"  Yes,  what  dreamers  are  we  artists! "  said  Lorrimer 
thoughtfully.  «  You,  Helstem,  dream  of  leaving  the 
world  a  little  better  than  you  find  it ;  I  dream  of  Fame, 
of  doing  work  that  will  win  me  applause;  and  you. 
Madden  —  what  do  you  dream  of.?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  take  myself  quite  so  grandiosely,"  I 
said  with  a  laugh.  "  I  dream  of  making  enough  money 
to  take  me  back  to  the  States,  to  show  them  I'm  not  a 
failure." 

"Failure!"  said  Lorrimer  with  some  feeling;  "it's 
those  who  stay  at  home  that  are  the  failures.  Look  at 
them  — small  country  ministers,  provincial  lawyers, 
flourishing  shopkeepers ;  such  are  the  shining  lights  of 
our  schoolboy  days.  Tax-payers,  pillars  of  respecta- 
bility, good  honest  souls,  but  —  failures  all." 

"  A  few  are  drummers,"  I  said.  "  The  rest  are  hum- 
drummers." 

"  Yes,"  sai  '  Lorrimer.     "  By  way  of  example,  let 
me  relate  the  true  history  of  James  and  John." 
"  James  was  the  model  boy.     He  studied  his  lessons, 


THE  CITY  OF  LAUGHTER  143 

was  conscientious  and  persevering.  He  held  the  top 
of  the  class  so  often  that  he  came  to  consider  he  had 
an  option  on  it.  He  nearly  wore  his  book,  out  with 
study,  and  on  prize-giving  days  he  was  the  star  actor  on 
the  progre.mnie.     Brilliant  future  prophesied  for  James. 

♦  *,  u";.  I"'^'""  ''°^"'  °"  *^^  °*^^''  ^^""^^  a«  consis- 
tently held  down  the  bottom  of  the  class.  He  was  la/y. 
unambitious,  irreverent.  He  preferred  play  to  study, 
«.nd  was  the  idol  of  the  unregenerate.  Direst  failure 
prophesied  for  John. 

"James  went  into  the  hardware  store  and  com- 
menced to  save  his  earnings.  Soon  he  was  promoted 
to  be  salesman.  He  began  to  teach  in  the  Sunday 
bchool.  He  was  eager  to  work  overtime,  and  spent  his 
evenings  studying  the  problems  of  the  business. 

"  John  began  :o  take  the  downward  path  right  away. 
He  attended  race-courses,  boldly  entered  saloons, 
haunted  low  music-haUs.  The  prophets  looked  wiser 
than  ever.  He  lost  his  job  and  took  to  singing  at 
smoking  concerts.  He  spent  his  time  trying  to  give 
comic  imitations  of  his  decent  neighbours,  and  practis- 
ing buck  and  wing  dances  till  his  legs  seemed  double- 
jointed. 

"James  at  this  period  wore  glossy  clothes,  and  re- 
fused to  recognise  John  on  the  street.  John  merely 
grinned.  -^ 

"James  stayed  with  the  home  town,  married  respect- 
ably, and  had  six  children  in  rapid  succession  as  every 
respectable  married  man  should.  He  owned  the  house 
he  hved  m  and  at  last  became  head  of  the  hardware 
store. 

"John  one  day  disappeared;  said  the  vilinge  was 
top  small  for  him;  wanted  to  get  to  a  City  where  he 


i 


144 


THE  PRETENDER 


could  have  scope  for  his  tnlcnts.  Said  the  prophets: 
'  I  told  you  so.' 

"  And  to-day  James,  my  friends,  is  a  school  trustee, 
an  alderman,  a  deacon  of  tlie  church.  He  is  pointed 
out  to  the  rising  generation  as  a  model  of  industry  and 
success.     But  John  —  where  is  John? 

"  Alas !  John  is,  I  regret  to  say,  at  present  touring 
in  the  Frohert  &  Schumann  Vaudeville  Circuit.  He  is 
a  headliner,  and  makes  five  hundred  dollars  a  week. 
All  he  does  for  it  is  to  sing  some  half-a-dozen  songs 
every  night,  in  which  he  takes  off  his  native  townsmen, 
and  to  dance  some  eccentric  steps  of  his  own  invention. 
He  has  a  limousine,  a  house  on  Riverside  Drive,  and  a 
h.  X  of  securities  in  the  Safety  Deposit  Vault  that  makes 
the  clerk  stagger  every  time  he  takes  it  out.  He  talks 
of  buying  up  his  native  village  some  day  and  the 
prophets  have  gone  out  of  business. 

"  And  now,  friends,  let's  pry  out  the  unmoral  moral. 
Honest  merit  may  cinch  the  boss  job  in  the  hardware 
store,  but  idle  ignorance  often  cops  the  electric  sign  on 
Broadway.  The  lazy  man  spends  his  time  scheming 
how  to  get  the  easy  money  —  and  often  gets  it.  The 
ignorant  man,  unwarped  by  tradition,  develops  on 
original  lines  that  make  for  fortune.  Even  laziness 
and  ignorance  can  be  factors  of  success.  All  of  which 
isn't  according  to  the  Sunday  School  story  book,  but 
it's  the  world  we  live  in.  And  now  as  I  see  Madam  is 
tired,  let's  bring  the  session  to  a  close." 

That  night,  as  I  was  going  home,  with  Anastasia 
clinging  on  my  arm,  I  said: 

"  And  what  is  it  you  dream  of,  Little  Thing?  " 

"Me!  Oh,  I  dream  all  time  I  make  gond  wife  for 
the  Beautiful  One  I  have."' 


m 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  CITY  OF  LOVE 

This  morning  in  the  course  of  my  walk  I  was  passing 
Cook's  corner  in  the  Place  de  I'Opera,  when  I  was 
accosted  from  behind  by  an  alcoholic  voice: 

"  Want  to  see  the  Crystal  Palace  to-day,  sir  ?  " 

Now  the  Crystal  Palace  is  one  of  these  traps  for  the 
stranger  with  which  Paris  is  baited.  Your  Parisian 
knows  these  places  as  part  of  the  city's  life  which  is 
not  there  for  the  Frenchman  but  for  the  tourist  and 
stranger.  These  people  look  for  these  things  as  a 
part  of  the  life  of  Paris,  j'our  Parisian  says,  and  in 
consequence  they  are  there. 

I  was  going  on,  then,  when  something  familiar  in 
the  voice  made  me  turn  sharply.  Lo  and  behold!  — 
O'Flather. 

"  Hullo,  Professor ! "  I  said,  with  a  grin.  "  Gone 
out  of  the  flea-taming  business.''" 

For  a  moment  he  stared  at  me. 

"  Hullo!  young  man.  Yep.  Met  with  a  dirty  deal. 
One  of  my  helpers  doped  the  troupe.  Them  as  wasn't 
stiff  and  cold  was  no  more  good  for  work.  Busted  me 
up." 

"  Too  bad.     What  are  you  doing  now.**  '* 

**  Working  as  a  guide." 

"  But  you  don't  know  Paris  !  " 

*'  'T ain't  necessary.  Mighty  few  Paris  guides  know 
Paris.     Don't  have  to." 

145 


1 ,1 

i  J 
f  I 
I 

i 


146 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  Well,  I  wish  jou  luck,"  I  said,  and  left  him.  He 
looked  after  me  curiously.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot 
from  excessive  drinking,  and  his  dewlaps  were  blotcheo 
and  sagging.  "Vindictive  brute!"  I  thought.  "If 
he  only  knew  wouldn't  he  be  mad!  What  a  ripping 
villain  he'd  make  if  this  was  only  fiction  instead  of  real 
life!" 

It  waj  this  morning,  too,  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Frosine.  Passing  through  the  mildewed  court  I 
saw  peering  through  the  window  of  a  basement  room 
the  wistful  face  of  little  Solonge.  Against  the  dark 
mterior  her  head  of  silky  gold  was  like  that  of  a  cherub 
pamted  on  a  panel.  Struck  with  a  sudden  idea,  I 
knocked  at    heir  door. 

Solonge  opened  it,  turning  the  handle,  after  several 
attempts,  with  both  hands,  and  very  proud  of  the 
feat.  She  welcomed  me  shyly,  and  a  clear  voice  in- 
vited me  to  enter.  If  the  appearance  of  the  child  had 
formerly  surprised  me,  I  was  still  more  astonished  when 
I  saw  the  mother.  She  was  almost  as  dark  as  the  little 
one  was  fair.  The  contrast  was  so  extreme  that  one 
almost  doubted  their  relationship. 

Scarcely  did  she  pause  in  her  work  as  I  entered. 
She  seemed,  indeed,  a  human  sewing  machine.  With 
lightning  quickness  she  fed  the  material  to  the  point  of 
her  needle,  and  every  time  she  drew  it  through  a 
score  of  stitches  would  be  made.  Already  the 
bed  was  heaped  with  work  she  had  finished,  and  a 
small  table  was  also  piled  with  stufF.  A  wardrobe, 
H  stove,  and  two  chairs  completed  the  furniture  of  the 
room. 

But   if   I   felt   inclined   to  pity   Frosine   the   feeling 


THE  CITY  OF  LOVE 


141 


vanished  on  looking  into  her  face.  It  was  so  brave, 
so  frank,  so  cheerful.  There  was  no  beauty,  but  a 
piquant  quality  that  almost  made  up  for  its  lack. 
Character,  variety,  appeal  she  had,  and  a  peculiar 
fascinating  quality  of  redemption.  Thus  the  beautiful 
teeth  redeemed  the  rather  large  mouth;  the  wide-set 
hazel  eyes  redeemed  the  short,  irregular  nose ;  the  broad 
well-shaped  brow  redeemed  the  somewhat  soft  chin. 
Her  skin  was  of  a  fine  delicacy,  one  of  those  skins  that 
seem  to  be  too  tightly  stretched;  and  constant  smil- 
ing had  made  fine  wrinkles  round  her  mouth  and 
eyes. 

"  A  female  with  an  active  sense  of  humour,*'  I  thought. 
Anastasia's  sense  of  humour  was  passive,  Rougette's 
somewhat  atrophied.  So  Mademoiselle  Frosine  smiled, 
and  her  smile  was  irresistible.  It  brought  into  play 
all  these  fine  wrinkles ;  it  was  so  whole-hearted,  so  free 
from  reservations.  That  tonic  smile  would  have  made 
a  pessimist  burn  his  Schopenhauer,  and  take  to  reading 
Elbert  Hubbard. 

"Mademoiselle,"  I  began  in  my  fumbling  French, 
"  I  have  come  to  beg  a  favour  of  you.  You  would  be 
a  thousand  times  amiable  if  you  could  spare  Solonge 
for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  afternoon,  to  go  with  us  to 
the  Luxembourg  Gardens.  There  she  may  play  in  the 
sunshine,  and  it  will  give  my  wife  infinite  gladness  to 
watch  her." 

Frosine  almost  dropped  her  needle  with  pleasure. 
"  Oh,  you  are  so  good.  It  v  "11  be  such  a  joy  for  my 
little  one,  and  will  make  me  so  happy.  Madame  loves 
children,  does  she  not  ?  " 

"It  is  truly  foolish  how  she  loves  them.     She  will 


■4 

t    T 


UK 


TIIK  PKETKNDEH 


be  ravished  if  you  will  permit  us  to  have  your  treasure 
for  a  little  while." 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  you  are  entirely  too  amiable." 
"Not  at  all.     It  is  well  Ik  art!,  then?" 
"  But,  yes,   certainly.     Vou  make  me   too   happy." 
"Ah,  well!  this  afternoon  at  three  o'elock?" 
"  At  three  o'clock." 

So  I  broke  the  news  to  Anastasia.  "  I.ittle  Thin^, 
I've  borrowed  a  baby  for  you  this  afternoon.  Solonge 
is  coming'  with  us  to  the  gardens." 

(Really,  if  I  had  given  her  a  new  hat  she  could  not 
have  been  more  enchanted.) 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  lovely !  Then  will  I  have  my  two 
childrens  with  me.  You  don't  know  how  I  um  glad." 
So  we  g.iH"  descended  the  timeworn  stairs,  and  found 
the  youngster  eagerly  awaiting  us.  In  her  naw  blue 
coat  and  hat  her  wealth  of  long  hair  looked  fairer  and 
silkier  than  ever.  For  a  child  of  four  and  a  half  she 
was  very  tall  and  graceful.  Then  we  bade  the  mother 
an  raoir,  and  with  the  youngster  chattering  excitedlv 
as  she  held  the  hand  of  Anastasia,  and  me  puffing  at  the 
cheap  l)riar  I  had  bought  in  the  place  of  the  ill-fate.l 
meerschaum,  we  started  out. 

"  I  suppose  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Solongc>,"  I  observed, 
"  Frosine  would  have  thrown  up  the  sponge  long  ago. 
How  awful  to  be  alone  day  after  day,  sewing  against 
time,  so  to  speak;  and  that  for  all  one's  life!" 

"Oil,  no.  There  is  many  girl  like  that  in  Paris. 
They  work  till  they  die.  They  are  brought  up  in  the 
convent.     That    make   tluni    very   serious." 

Anastasia  had  certainly  the  deepest  faith  in  her  re- 
ligion. 

After  its  long  winter  rcWichc  the  glorious  old  garden 


THE  CITY  OF  LOVE 


149 


was  awakening  to  the  symphony  of  Spring.  The  soft 
breeze  that  stirred  the  opening  buds  came  to  us  hiden 
with  fragrance,  arousing  that  so  exquisite  feeling  of 
sweet  confused  memory  that  only  the  Spring-birth  can 
evoke.  The  basin  of  the  Fontaine  de  Medicis  was 
stained  a  dehcate  green  by  peeping  leaves,  and  a  flock 
of  fat  sparrows  with  fluttering  feathers  and  joyous 
cries  were  making  much  ado.  We  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  stone  benches,  because  the  pennies  for  the  chairs 
might  buy  many  needful  things. 

That  dear,  dear  garden  of  the  Luxembourg,  what, 
I  wonder,  is  the  secret  of  its  charm.?  Is  it  that  it  is 
haunted  by  the  sentiment  and  romance  of  ages  dead 
and  forgotten?  Beautiful  it  is,  yet  other  gardens  are 
also  beautiful,  and  —  oh,  how  different!  Surely  it 
should  be  sacred,  sacred  to  children,  artists  and  lovers. 
There,  under  the  green  and  laughing  leaf,  where 
statues  glimmer  in  marble  or  gloom  in  bronze,  and  the 
fountain  throws  to  the  tender  sky  its  exquisite  aigrette 
of  gold  —  there  the  children  play,  the  artists  dream, 
and  the  lovers  exchange  sweet  kisses.  Oh,  Mimi  and 
Musette,  where  the  bust  of  Murger  lies  buried  in  the 
verdure,  listening  to  the  protestations  of  your  Eugene 
and  Marcel!  —  do  you  not  dream  that  in  this  self-same 
spot  your  mothers  in  their  hours  listened  to  the  voice 
of  love,  nay,  even  their  mothers  in  their  hours.  So 
over  succeeding  generations  will  the  old  garden  cast 
its  spell,  and  under  the  branches  of  the  old  trees  lovers 
in  days  to  come  will  whisper  their  vows.  Yea,  I  think 
it  is  haunted,  that  dear,  dear  garden  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg. 

Solonge,  whom  I  had  decided  to  call  "  The  Mome," 
had  a  top  which  she  kept  going  with  a  little  whip. 


*f 


150 


THE  PRETENDER 


To  start  it  she  would  wi:  .1  t^:  lash  of  the  whip  around 
its  point,  then  standin j  it  ^.right  in  the  soft  ground, 
give  it  a  sharp  jerk.  But  after  a  little  she  tired 
of  this,  and  began  to  ask  questions  about  fairies. 
Never  have  I  seen  a  child  so  imaginative.  Her  world 
is  peopled  with  fairies,  with  whom  she  holds  constant 
communion.  There  are  tree  fairies,  water  fairies, 
fairies  that  live  in  the  ground,  fairies  that  lurk  in  the 
flowers  —  she  can  tell  you  .ill  about  them.  Her  faith 
in  them  is  touching,  and  brutal  would  he  be  who  tried 
to  shatter  it. 

"  You  that  make  so  many  stories,"  said  Anastasia, 
as  she  listened  to  the  prattle  of  the  Mome,  "  have  you 
no  stories  for  children  .>  Can  you  not  make  one  for  lit- 
tle Solonge  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  I  might ;  but  you  will  have  to  put 
it  in  French  for  her." 

"All  right.     I  try."  , 

So  I  thought  a  little,  then  I  began : 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  boy  who  was  very 
much  alone  and  who  dreamed  greatly.  In  his  father's  gir- 
dtn  he  had  a  tiny  corner  of  his  own,  and  in  this  corner 
grtw  a  large  pumpkin.  The  boy,  who  had  never  seen  a 
pumpkin  so  big,  thought  that  it  might  take  a  prize  at  the 
yearly  show  in  the  village,  and  so  every  day  he  fed  it  with 
milk,  and  always  with  the  milk  of  the  brindled  cow,  which 
was  richest  of  all. 

So  the  pumpkin  grew  and  grew,  and  the  little  boy  be- 
came so  wrapt  up  in  it  he  thought  of  little  else.  At  last 
it  grtw  to  such  a  size  that  other  people  began  to  look  at  it, 
and  say  it  would  surely  take  a  prize.  The  little  boy  be- 
came more  proud  of  it  than  ever,  and  fed  it  more  and  more 
of  the  milk  of  the  brindled  row,  and  took  to  rubbing  it 
till  it  shone  —  with  his  big  brother's  silk  handkerchief. 


THE  CITY  OF  LOVE  151 

Then  one  night  as  he  lay  in  bed  he  heard  a  great  to-do 
in  the  garden,  and  ran  out  in  his  night-dress.  There  was 
a  patch  of  ground  where  grew  the  pumpkins,  and  another 
where  grew  the  squashes,  and  both  seemed  greatly  dis- 
turbed. Fearing  for  his  favourite  he  hurried  forward. 
No,  there  it  was,  great  and  glossy  in  the  moonlight.  He 
kissed  It,  and  even  as  he  did  so  it  seemed  as  if  he  heard 
from  within  it  a  tiny,  tinny  voice  calling  his  name.  In 
surprise  he  stepped  back,  and  the  next  moment  a  door 
opened  in  the  side  of  the  pumpkin  and  a  fairy  stepped 
forth. 

"  I  am  the  Pumpkin  King,"  said  the  fairv,  "  and  in  the 
name  of  the  Pumpkin  People  I  bid  you  welcome." 

Then  the  boy  saw  that  the  inside  of  the  great  gourd  was 
hollow,  and  was  lit  with  a  wondrous  chandeUer  of  glow- 
worms. It  was  furnished  like  a  little  chamber,  with  a  bed, 
table,  chairs  — such  a  room  as  you  may  see  in  a  house  for 
doUs.  The  boy  wished  greatly  that  he  might  enter,  and 
even  as  he  wished  he  found  that  he  had  grown  very  small, 
as  small,  indeed,  as  his  own  finger. 

"  Will  you  not  enter.?  "  asked  the  King  with  a  smile  of 
we*  -t/me. 

So  the  boy  ad  the  King  became  great  friends,  and  each 
night  when  every  one  else  was  a-bed  he  would  steal  fortli 
and  sit  in  the  chamber  of  the  Pumpkin  King.  The  King 
thanked  him  for  his  care  of  the  royal  residence,  and  told 
him  many  things  of  the  vegetable  world.  But  chiefly  he 
talked  of  the  endless  feud  between  the  pumpkins  and  their 
hereditary  enemies,  the  squashes.  Whenever  the  two  came 
together  there  was  warfare,  and  when  the  squashes  were 
more  numerous  the  pumpkins  were  often  defeated.  Yon- 
der by  the  gate  dwelt  the  Squash  King,  a  terrible  fellow, 
of  whom  the  Pumpkin  King  lived  in  fear. 

"  Can  I  not  kill  him  for  you  ?  "  said  the  little  boy. 

"  No,  no,"  answered  the  King.  "  No  mortal  can  de- 
stroy a  fairy.     Things  must  take  their  course." 


152 


THE  PRETENDER 


At  this  the  little  boy  was  very  sad,  and  began  to  dread 
all  kinds  of  dangers  for  his  friend  the  King.  Then  one 
day  he  was  taken  ill  with  a  cold,  and  the  window  was 
closed  at  night  so  tli.it  he  could  not  steal  out  as  usual.  And 
as  he  lay  tossing  in  his  bed  he  heard  a  great  noise  in  the 
garden.  At  once  he  knew  that  a  terrible  battle  was  raging 
between  the  squash  and  the  pumpkin  tribes.  Alas !  he  could 
do  nothing  to  help  his  friends,  so  he  cried  bitterly. 

And  next  morning  his  father  came  to  his  bedside  and  told 
him  that  all  the  pumpkins  had  been  destroyed,  including 
his  big  one. 

"  It  was  that  breechy  brindled  cow,"  said  the   father. 
"  It  must  have  broken  into  the  garden  in  the  night." 
But  the  little  boy  knew  l)etter. 

As  I  finished  a  deep,  strongly  vibrating  voice  greeted 
us. 

"What  a  pretty  domestic  scene.  Didn't  know  you 
had  a  youngster.  Madden.     Must  congratulate  you." 

Looking  up  I  saw  Helstcrn.  lie  was  leaning  on  a 
stout  stick,  carved  like  a  gargoyle.  All  in  black,  with 
that  mane  of  iron-grey  hair  and  his  keen,  stern  face 
he  made  quite  a  striking  figure.  There  is  something 
unconsciously  dramatic  about  Helstern ;  I,  on  the  other 
hand,  am  consciously  dramatic;  while  Lorrimer  is  ab- 
solutely natural. 

"  Sorry,"  I  said,  "  she  doesn't  belong  to  us.  We've 
just  borrowed  her  for  the  afternoon." 

"  I  sec.  What  a  beautiful  type !  English,  I  should 
imagine 


.?  " 


"  No,  that's  what  makes  her  so  different  —  French." 
lie  looked  at  her  as  if  fascinated. 
"  I'd  like  awfully  to  make  a  sketch  of  her,  if  you 
can  get  her  to  stand  still." 


THE  CITY  OF  LOVE 


153 


At  that  moment  there  was  no  difficulty,  for  the 
Moiiic  was  gazing  in  round-eyed  awe  at  the  ferocious 
Turk's  head  pipe  in  the  sculptor's  mouth.  So  Hclstern 
took  a  chair,  whipped  out  his  sketch-book,  and  before 
the  fascinated  child  could  recover  he  had  completed  a 
graceful  little  sketch. 

"  Splendid !  "  I  said. 

Anastasia,  too,  was  enthusiastic;  but  when  the  Momc, 
who  was  now  nestling  in  her  arms,  saw  it  she  uttered 
a  scream  of  delight. 

"  If  you  just  sit  still  a  little,"  said  Helstem  eagerly, 
'*  while  I  do  another  one  for  myself,  I'll  give  you  this 
one  to  take  home  to  your  molhcr.'* 

The  Alome  was  very  timid;  but  we  posed  her  sitting 
on  the  end  of  the  stone  seat,  with  one  slim  leg  bent 
under  her  and  the  other  dangling  down,  while  she 
scattered  some  crumbs  for  the  fat  sparrows  at  her 
feet.  Against  the  background  of  a  lilac  bush  she  made 
a  charming  picture,  and  Hclstern  worked  with  an  en- 
thusiasm that  made  his  eyes  gleam,  and  his  stern  face 
relax.  This  time  he  used  a  fine  pencil  of  sepia  tint, 
working  with  the  broad  of  it  so  as  to  get  soft  effects 
of  shadow.  True,  he  idealised  almost  beyond  resem- 
blance; but  what  a  delicate,  graceful  picture  he  made! 

"  It  isn't  such  a  good  likeness  as  the  first  one,"  I 
remarked,  after  I  had  murmured  my  admimtion. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said,  with  the  pitying  superiority  of  the 
artist.     "  But  you  don't  see  her  as  I  see  her." 

There,  I  thought,  is  Art  in  a  nutshell ;  the  individual 
vision,  the  divination  of  the  soul  of  things,  hidden 
inexorably  from  the  common  eye.  To  see  differentlv; 
a  greener  colour  in  the  grn-i'i,  ;\  deeper  blue  in  the  sky, 
a  madonna  in  a  woman  of  the  street,  an  angel  in  a 


154 


THE  PRETENDER 


chiJd,  God  in  all  things  —  oh,  enchanted  Vision !  they 
who  have  thee  should  be  happier  than  kings. 

There,  little  one ! "  said  the  sculptor,  giving  her 
the  first  sketch ;  «  take  that  to  your  mother  and  say 
I  said  she  should  be  very  proud  of  you.  Heavens,  I 
wish  I  could  do  a  clay  figure  of  her.     I  wish  — " 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  sighed  deeply, 
then  stumped  away  looking  very  thoughtful. 

"  Is  he  not  distinguished,"  I  said,  «  in  spite  of  that 
foot  of  his.?" 

"  Ah !  that  is  so  sad,  I  sink.  But  perhaps  it  is  - 
the  best  he  have  foot  like  that.  It  make  him  u  .re 
serious;  it  make  him  great  artist." 

Trust  Anastasia  to  find  some  compensation  in  all 
misfortune ! 

Frosine  was  plying  that  lightning  needle  when  we 
returned.  She  looked  up  joyfully  as  the  little  one 
rushed  to  her  with  the  sketch. 

"  Who  did  this.?  It  is  my  little  pigeon  —  truly,  it  is 
her  very  self." 

"  It  was  H  friend  of  ours,"  said  Anastasia,  '« who  is 
a  great  sculptor,  or,  at  least,  who  is  going  to  be.  He 
has  fallen  in  love  with  your  daughter,  as  indeed  we  all 
have." 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  good  of  you  to  take  her  out.  Already 
r  see  a  difference  in  her.  I  would  not  have  her  grow- 
up  like  the  children  of  the  streets,  and  it  is  so  hard 
when  one  is  poor  and  has  to  work  every  moment  of 
one's  time.  As  for  this  picture,  thank  the  Monsieur. 
Say  I  will  treasure  it." 

We  promised  to  do  so,  and  left  her  singing  gaily  by 
the  open  window  as  she  resumed  her  everlasting  toil. 

So  it  h.-.s  come  ubout  that  nearly  every  afternoon 


THE  CITY  OF  LOVE 


155 


we  sit  in  the  Luxembourg  enjoying  the  mellow  sun- 
shine, with  the  little  girl  playing  around  us.  We  know 
many  people  by  sight,  for  the  same  ones  come  day 
after  day.  There  by  the  terrace  of  the  Queens  we 
watch  the  toy  yachts  careening  in  the  basin,  the  boys 
playing  diabolo,  the  sauntering  students  with  their 
sweethearts.  Anastasia  works  industriously  on  some 
Spanish  embroidery,  I  read  for  the  twentieth  time  one 
of  my  manuscripts,  while  the  Momc  leaps  and  laughs 
as  she  keeps  a  shuttlecock  bounding  in  the  air.  Her 
eyes  are  very  bright  now,  and  her  delicate  cheeks  have 
a  rosy  stain.  Then,  when  over  the  great  trees  tin* 
Western  sky  is  aglow,  when  the  fountain  turns  to  flame, 
and  a  charmed  light  lingers  in  the  groves,  slowly  we 
go  home.  Days  of  grateful  memory,  for  in  them  do  I 
come  to  divine  the  deepest  soul  of  Paris,  that  which 
is  Youth  and  Love. 


■s' 


i 


CHAPTER  VI 
GETTING  DOWN  TO  CASES 

"  AxASTASiA,"  I  said  with  a  sigh,  "  did  I  ever  tell  you 
of  (iwindolin?  " 

"  No;  what  is  it?  "  she  asked,  and  her  face  had  rather 
an  anxious  expression. 

"Gwendolin  was  a  girl,  a  very  nice  girl,  a  trained 
nurse;  and  we  wore  engaged." 

"  What  you  mean  ?     She  was  your  fiancee?  " 

"  Ves,  she  was  one  of  my  fiancees." 

"What!     You   have   more   than   one.?"     The   poor 
girl  was  really  horrified. 

"  Oh,  several.  I  don't  just  remember  how  many.  I 
quarrelled  with  one  heeause  we  couldn't  agree  over  tin- 
name  wo  would  give  the  first  baby.  I  broke  it  off  with 
another  because  her  stomach  made  such  funny  noises 
every  time  I  tried  to  squeeze  her.  It  made  me  nervous. 
But  Gwendolin  —  I  must  tell  you  about  her.  I  was 
very  ill  with  diphtheria  in  a  lonely  house  by  the  sea, 
and  she  had  come  to  nurse  me.  She  would  let  no  one 
else  come  near  me,  and  she  waited  on  me  night  and 
day." 

(Anastasia  suspended  operations  on  the  heel  of  mv 
sock  she  was  darning.) 

"  She  was  a  nervous,  high-strung  girl,  and  she 
watched  over  me  with  an  agony  of  care.  There  was  a 
doctor,  too,  who  came  twice  a  day,  yet,  in  spite  of  all, 
I  hourly  grew  more  weak.  My  dreary  moans  seemed 
to  be  echoed  by  the  hollow  moans  of  the  sea.* 

156 


»» 


GETTING  DOWN  TO  CASES 


151 


(Anastasia  seemed  divided  between  resentment  of 
Gwendolin  and  pity  for  me.) 

"  Well,  the  poor  girl  was  almost  worn  to  a  shadow, 
and  one  night,  as  she  sat  by  me,  pale  and  hollow-eyed, 
I  saw  a  sudden  change  come  over  her. 

" '  I  can  stand  it  no  longer,'  she  cried.  *  His  every 
moan  pierces  me  to  the  heart.  I  must  do  something, 
something.' 

"  Then  she  rose,  and  I  was  conscious  of  her  great, 
pitiful  eyes.  Suddenly  I  thrilled  with  horror,  for  I 
realised  that  they  were  the  eyes  of  a  mad  woman. 
The  strain  of  nursing  had  unhinged  her  mind. 

"  *  The  doctor  tells  me  there  is  no  hope,'  she  went 
on.  *0h,  I  cannot  bear  to  hoar  him  suffer  so;  I 
must  give  him  peace;  —  but  how?' 

"  On  a  table  near  by  there  was  a  small  pair  of  scis- 
sors.    She  took  them  up  thoughtfully. 

"'Dearest,'  she  said  to  me,  'your  sufferings  will 
soon  be  over.  I  am  going  to  cut  your  poor  throat, 
that  gives  you  such  pain.' 

"  I  struggled,  twisting  my  head  this  way  and  that, 
but  she  held  me  like  a  vice,  and  over  my  throat  I  felt 
two  edges  of  cold  steel." 

(Anastasia  was  gazing  in  horror.) 
"Steadily    they    closed,    tighter,    tighter.     Now    I 
could   feel    them    bite   the   flesh   and   the   blood   spout. 
Then  I,  who  for  days  had  been  unable  to  utter  a  word, 
suddenly  found  my  voice. 

"  '  Don't  butcher  me,'  I  whispered  hoarsely.  •  Cut 
my  accursed  throat  by  all  means,  but  do  it  neatly. 
Your  scissors  are  far  too  blunt.' 

" '  But  how  may  I  sharpen  them,  darling? '  she  cried 
piteously. 


158 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  I  remembered  how  I  had  seen  other  women  do  it. 

" '  Try  to  cut  on  the  neck  of  a  bottle.' 

"♦Will  that  do?' 

Yes,   yes.     Keep    cutting   on    the   smooth    round 
glass.     It's  astonishing  the  difference  it   makes.' 

"  ♦  What  kind  of  a  bottle,  sweetheart.' ' 

"•An  ink-bottle's  best.  You'll  find  one  downstairs 
on  the  dining-room  mantelpiece.     Ilurrv.' 

"  ♦  All  right,  I'll  get  it.' 

"  She  fliw  downstairs.  Now  was  my  chance.  With 
my  remaining  strength  I  crawled  to  the  door  and 
locked  it.  When  I  recovered  from  a  faint  her  struggles 
to  force  it  had  ceased,  and  at  the  same  moment  I  heard 
the  honk  of  the  doctor's  auto.  Going  to  the  window, 
I  bellowed  like  a  bull.  Then  I  was  conscious  of  a 
strange  thing:  by  the  pressure  on  my  throat,  by  my 
struggles,  the  malignant  growth  had  broken.  I  was 
saved." 

Anastasia  shuddered.  "And  that  Gwendolin  .J*  "  she 
queried. 

"  Was  taken  to  an  asylum,  where  she  died,"  I  said 
sadly. 

"  Poor  sing,"  said  Anastasia. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  thing  had  happened  to 
me  the  night  before  in  a  very  vivid  dream.  Often, 
indeed,  I  got  ideas  in  this  way,  so  I  promptly  made  a 
story  of  Nurse  Gwendolin. 

I  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  it  when  a 
knock  came  to  the  door.  It  was  Helstern,  panting, 
perspiring. 

"  Heavens !  but  it's  hard  climbing  that  stairway  of 
yours  with  a  game  leg.  Sorry  to  disturb  you,  Mad- 
den, but  where  does  the  mother  of  your  little  girl  live? 


GETTING  DOWN  TO  CASES  159 

You  don't  know  how  that  youngster  inspires  me.  I 
feel  that  if  I  could  do  a  full-length  of  her  it  would  get 
me  into  the  Salon.  See !  here's  a  sketch.  Spring,  it's 
called.  Of  course,  I  mean  to  follow  up  with  the  other 
seasons,  but  I  want  a  child  for  my  Spring." 

He  showed  me  a  tender  fiUette^in  a  state  of  nature, 
trymg  to  avoid  tripping  over  a  tame  lamb  as  she 
scattered  abroad  an  armful  of  flowers. 

"Stunning!"  I  said.  "So  original!  Lot's  go 
down  and  interview  the  mother." 

Into  his  brown  eyes  came  a  look  of  distress.     "  I'm 
a  bit  awkward  with  women,  you   know.     Would  you 
mmd  doing  the  talking.?  " 
"Right  O!     Follow  me." 

So  we  descended  the  narrow,  crumbling  stairs,  from 
each  stage  of  which  came  a  smell  of  cookery.  Thus 
we  passed  through  a  stratum  of  ham  and  eggs',  another 
of  corned  beef  and  cabbage,  a  third  of  beefsteak  and 
onions,  down  to  the  fried  fish  stratum  of  the  entresol. 
Frosine  was  in  the  midst  of  dinner.  The  Alome  re- 
garded us  over  a  spoonful  of  milk  soup,  and  as  he 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow,  Helstern  looked 
at  her  almost  devouringly.  But  in  the  presence  of 
Frosine  he  seemed  almost  tongue-tied.  To  me,  who 
have  never  known  what  shyness  was,  it  seemed  pitiable. 
However  I  explained  our  mission,  and  even  showed  the 
sketch  at  a  flattering  angle.  Frosine  listened  politely, 
seemed  to  want  to  laugh,  then  turned  to  the  sculptor 
with  that  frank,  kindly  smile  that  seemed  to  radiate 
good  fellowship. 

"  You  do  me  too  great  honour.  Monsieur.  I  am  sure 
your  work  would  be  very  beautiful.  But  alas !  Solonge 
18  very  shy  and  very  modest.     One  could  never  get  her 


160 


TIIK  rUKTKNnEK 


to  pose  for  the  figure.  I  uni  sorry,  but  believe  me,  the 
thing  is  impossible." 

"  Thank  vou,  Miulani.  I  am  sorrv  too,"  he  said 
humbly.  He  stumped  away  crestfallen,  and  with  a 
final,  sorrowful  look  at  the  Mome. 

Anastasia  was  keeping  supper  hot  for  me.  '*  Poo- 
Ilelstern,"  I  remarked  over  my  second  chop,  "  I  m 
afraid  he'll  have  to  look  out  for  another  vernal  infant. 
But  talking  of  Spring  reminds  me,  time  is  passing,  and 
we're  not  getting  any  richer.  How's  the  family 
treasury.*  " 

An  examination  of  the  tea-canister  that  contained 
our  capital  revealed  the  sum  of  twenty-seven  francs. 
I  looked  at  it  ruefully. 

"  I  never  dreamed  we  were  so  low  as  that.  With 
care  we  can  live  for  a  week  on  twenty-seven  francs  — 
but  what  then?" 

"  Vou  must  try  and  sell  some  of  your  work,  darlecn ; 
and  I  —  I  can  sell  some  hcin-hrodcric.'' 

"  Never !  I  can't  let  you  sell  these  things.  They're 
lovely.      I  want  to  keep  them." 

"  But  I  easily  do  some  more.     It  is  pleasure  for  me." 

"  No,  no ;  at  least,  hold  on  a  bit.  I'll  make  some 
money  from  my  work.  I'm  going  to  send  it  off  to- 
morrow." 

Vis,  we  were  surely  "  getting  down  to  cases."  But 
what  matter!  Of  course  my  work  will  be  accepted  at 
once,  and  paid  for  on  the  spot.  True,  I  have  no  ex- 
perience in  this  kind  of  peddling.  My  stuft"  has  always 
appeared  virgin  in  a  book.  Not  that  I  think  I  am 
prostituting  it  by  sending  it  to  a  magazine,  but  that 
no  sooner  do  I  sto  it  in  print  than  my  interest  in  it 
dies.     It  belongs  to  the  public  then. 


GETTING  DOWN  TO  CASES 


161 


Next  (lay  I  bought  a  box  of  big  envelopes,  a  quan- 
tity of  French  and  English  stamps,  and  a  manuscript 
book  in  which  I  entered  the  titles  of  the  different  items. 
1  also  ruled  columns :  Where  Sent :  When  Sent ;  even 
When  Returned,  tliou^  I  thought  the  latter  super- 
fluous.     Here  then  was  my  list : 

The  Psychology  of  Sea-sickness. 

An  Amateur  Lazzarone. 

A  Detail  of  Two  Cities. 

The  ^ficrobe. 

How  to  be  a  Successful  Wife. 

Nurse  GwendoIIn. 

The  City  of  Light. 

The  City  of  Laughter. 

The  City  of  Love. 

and 
Three  Fairy  Stories. 

Twelve  items  in  all.  So  I  prepared  them  for  des- 
patch; but  where."  That  was  the  question.  How- 
ever, after  examining  the  windows  of  several  English 
book-shops,  I  took  a  chance  shot,  posted  them  it 
twelve  different  destinations,  and  sat  down  to  await 
results. 

Since  then,  with  a  fine  sense  of  freedom,  I  have  been 
indulging  in  my  mania  for  old  houses.  I  do  not  meah 
houses  of  historic  interest,  but  ramshackle  ruins  tucked 
away  in  seductive  slums.  To  gaze  at  an  old  home  and 
imagine  its  romance  is  to  me  more  fascinating  than  try- 
ing to  realise  romance  you  know  occurred  there.  I 
examine  doors  studded  with  iron,  search  mouldering 
walls  for  inscriptions,  peer  into  curious  courtyards. 
I  commune  with  the  spirit  of  Old  Paris,  I  step  in  the  ' 


^^ 


16i2 


THE  PKETEXDER 


footprints  of  Voltaire  and  A  trlaine,  of  Rousseau  and 
Kacine,  of  Mirabeau  and  Molicrc. 

One  day  I  visit  the  room  where  an  English  Lord  of 
Letters  died  more  diatlis  than  one.  A  gloomy,  grue- 
some hotel,  with  an  electric  night-sign  that  goes  in  and 
out  like  some  semaphore  of  sin.  A  cadaverous,  miser- 
able-looking man  tells  me  that  the  room  is  at  present 
occupied.  I  return.  A  cadaverous,  miserable-looking 
woman  whines  to  a  dejected  looking  valet-de-chambru 
that  I  may  go  up. 

It  is  on  the  first  floor  and  overlooks  a  court.  There 
is  the  bed  of  varnished  pine  in  which  he  died ;  the  usual 
French  hotel  wardrobe,  the  usual  plush  armchair,  but 
not,  I  note,  the  usual  clock  of  chocolate  marble.  Every- 
thing so  commonplace,  so  sordid ;  yet  for  a  moment  I 
could  see  that  fallen  demi-god,  as  with  eyes  despairful 
as  death  in  their  tear-corroded  sockets,  he  stared  and 
stared  into  that  drab,  rain-sodden  court. 

For  who  can  tell  to  what  red  Hell 
His  sightless  soul  may  stray. 

And  so   in   sweet,  haphazard   wanderings   amid   the 

Paris  of  the  Past  time  sped  ever  so  swiftly.     I  forgot 

my  manuscripts,  my  position,  everything  'in  my  sheer 

delight  of  freedom;  and  how  long  my  dream  would 

have  continued  I  know  not  if  I  had  not  had  a  sudden 

awakening.     It  was   on   my  return   from  one  of  my 

rambles  when  I  drew  up  with  a  start  in  front  of  a  shop 

that  showed  all  kinds  of  woman's  work  for  sale. 

"  Heavens !     Surely  that  isn't  Anastasia's  cushion?  " 

I  was  staring  at  a  piece  of  exquisite  silk  embroidery, 

an  imitation  nf  ancient  tapestry.     No,  I  could  not  be 

mistaken.     Too  well  I  remembered  every  detail  of  it ; 


GKTTING  DOWN  TO  CASES 


163 


how  I  had  watclied  it  take  on  beauty  under  her  patient 
fingers;  how  hour  after  hour  I  could  hear  the  crisp 
snap  as  the  needle  broke  through  the  taut  silk.  Over 
a  v..!,  i.a,!  sUl-  (oilLd  on  it,  rising  with  the  first  dawn, 
M,  that  slic  might  have  more  daylight  in  which  to  blend 
lu  r  colours.  And  there  it  was,  imbedded  in  that  mass 
of  cheap  stufF,  and  marked  with  a  smudgy  paper, 
"Forty-five   francs."     Yes,   I   felt    sick. 

How  careless  I  had  been!  I  had  never  given  the 
financial  situation  another  thought,  yet  we  had  wanted 
for  nothing.  There  was  that  excellent  dinner  we  had 
liud  the  night  before;  why,  she  must  have  sold  this  to 
liuy  it !  Even  now  I  was  living  on  the  proceeds  of  her 
work. 

'•  What  a  silly  girl !  She  wouldn't  say  a  word,  in 
case  I  should  be  worried.  Just  like  women ;  they  take  a 
fiendish  delight  in  humiliating  a  man  by  sacrificing 
themselves  for  him.  But  I  can't  let  her  support  me. 
Let's  sec  .  .  .  There's  my  watch  and  chain.  What's 
a  chain  but  a  useless  gaud,  a  handhold  for  a  pick- 
pocket. Maybe  this  very  afternoon  I'll  have  the  whole 
tiling  snatched.  I'll  take  no  chances;  it's  a  fine,  heavy 
tliain,  and  cost  over  a  hundred  dollars;  maybe  the 
Mont  de  Pietists  will  give  me  fifty  for  it.'* 

They  wouldn't.  Twenty-five  was  their  limit,  so  I 
took  it  meekly.  Then,  returning  hastily  to  the  em- 
broidery shop,  I  bought  the  cushion  cover,  carried  it 
home  under  my  coat,  and  locked  it  safely  away  in  the 
alligator-skin  suitcase. 

Though  her  greeting  was  bravely  brjght,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  Anastasia  had  been  crying,  and  of  the  nice 
onitlelte  she  had  provided  for  my  lunch  she  would 
scarcely  taste. 


J4 


164 


THE  PRETENDER 


"\^^lat♦s  the  trouble,  Little  Thing;  out  with  it." 

She  hesitated;  looked  anxious,  miserable,  apologetic. 

"  I  don't  like  trouble  you,  darleen,  but  the  concierge 
have  come  for  the  rent  tree  time,  and  I  don't  know 
what  I  must  say." 

"  The  rent !  I  quite  forgot  that.  Why,  yes,  we  pay 
rent,  don't  we.?     How  much  is  it?" 

"  Don't  you  remember.'  One  'undred  twenty-five 
franc.*' 

"  Well,  there's  only  one  thing  to  do  —  pay  it.  But 
to  do  so  I  must  put  my  ticker  up  the  spout." 

"Oh,  my  poor  darleen,  I'm  so  sorry.  I  sink  it  is 
me  bring  you  so  much  trooublc.  If  it  was  not  for  me 
you  have  plenty  of  money,  I  sink." 

"Don't  say  that.  If  it  wasn't  for  your  economies 
I'd  be  rustling  for  crusts  in  the  gutter.  And  any  way, 
what's  the  good  of  a  watch  when  I  can  see  the  time  in 
every  shop  I  pass.'  Besides,  I  might  lose  it;  so  here 
goes." 

It  is  quite  in  tune  with  the  cheerful  philosophy  of 
the  French  to  find  a  virtue  in  misfortune.  Whether 
they  break  a  glass,  spill  red  wine,  or  step  in  dirt,  it's 
all  the  same:     "Ah!  but  it  will  carry  the  good  luck." 

For  my  gold  watch  I  received  two  hundred  francs, 
though  it  had  cost  over  a  thousand;  and  with  this  I 
returned.  Much  the  shape  and  colour  of  a  bloated 
spider,  the  concierge  emerged  from  her  den,  and  to  her 
I  paid  the  rent.  Then,  leaping  upstairs,  I  poured  the 
balance  remaining  from  both  transactions  into  Anas- 
tasia's  lap. 

"There!  That  ought  to  keep  away  the  wolf  for 
a  month.  A  hundred  and  fifty  francs  and  the  rent 
paid  for  another  quarter.     Aren't  we  the  lucky  things.' 


GETTING  DOWN  TO  CASES 


165 


The  roof's  overhead ;  the  soup's  in  the  pot ;  let's  sing. 
Now  do  1  know  why  the  very  wastrels  in  the  street 
u  u.t  so  much  to  be  pitied  after  all;  a  warm  corner 
u:  full  belly,  that's  happiness  to  them.     Wealth's 

oi  X  matter  of  wants.  Well,  we're  wealthy,  let's  go 
to  th>-  cinema." 

"No,  darleen,  that  would  not  be  serious.  I  must 
ffuard  your  money  now.  When  you  sink  you  begeen 
work  once  more?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  having  one  of  my  bad  spells. 
Funny  how  it  takes  one.  Times  ideas  come  in  a  perfect 
spate,  and  I  miss  half  grabbing  for  the  others.  At 
present  the  divine  afflatus  is  on  a  vacation.  I'm  trying 
to  start  a  novel  and  I  haven't  got  the  Idea.  You  see 
this  short  story  and  article  stuff  is  all  very  well  to  boil 
the  marmite,  but  a  novel's  my  real  chance.  '.  success- 
ful novel  would  put  me  on  my  feet.  Pray,  Little 
'I  liing,  I  get  the  idea  for  a  novel!" 

"  Yes,  I  will,  I  will  indeed,"  she  answered  me  quite 
st'riously. 

And  indeed  she  did:  for  one  day  I  strolled  into  Notre 
Dame,  and  there  by  one  of  those  hard,  high-backed 
chairs  before  the  mighty  altar  I  discovered  her  implor- 
ing (I  have  no  doubt)  the  "  bon  Dieu  "  that  the  idea 
might  come. 

For  simple,  shining  faith  I'm  willing  to  bet  ray  last 
dollar  on  Anastasia. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  .MI'.HHV  MONTH  OF'  MAY 

May  \xt. 
This  inorning  in  the  course  of  my  wiilk  I  saw  a  liungry 
child  trying  to  sell  violets,  a  girl  gazing  fearfully  at 
the  Maternity  Hospital,  an  old  woman  picking,  as  if 
they  were  gold,  co/ds  from  the  gutter.  At  times  wliat 
a  world  of  poignant  tlrama  these  conunon  sights  reveal ! 
It  is  like  getting  one's  eye  to  a  telescope  that  is  focussed 
on  a  world  of  interesting  misery.  I  want  to  write  of 
these  things,  hut  I  must  not.  First  of  all  I  must  write 
for  money:  that  gained,  I  may  write  for  art. 

So  far  I  haven't  hit  on  my  novel  motif,  though  I've 
lain  awake  at  nights  racking  my  poor  hrains.  What 
nuikes  me  fi.  t  so  is  that  never  have  I  felt  such  con- 
fidence, such  power,  such  hunger  to  create.  I  think 
it  must  he  Paris  and  the  Springtime.  The  comhination 
makes  n»e  ditliyramhic  with  delight.  I  thrill,  1  hurn, 
I  see  life  with  eyes  anointed.  Yesterday  in  the  Luxem- 
hourg  I  wrote  some  verses  that  weren''t  half  had;  but 
writing  verses  does  not  make  the  thorns  crackle  under 
the  pot,  far  less  supply  the  savoury  soup.  Oh,  the 
Idea,  the  Idea! 

To  my  little  hand  of  manuscripts  I  have  never  given 
another  thought.  But  that  is  my  way.  I  am  like  a 
mother  cat  — when  my  kittens  are  young  I  love  them: 
when  thoy  grow  to  he  cats  I  spit  at  them.  .My  work 
finished,  I  never  want  to  set-  it  a/tjain. 


THE  MERRY  MONTH  OF  MAY  167 

One  day  as  I  fumed  and  fussed  abominahlv  I.orrinicr 

oilled. 

"Look  here,  Madden,  I  don't  know  what  kind  of 
writing  you  do,  but  I  suppose  you're  not  any  too 
luastly  rich ;  you're  not  above  making  an  honest  dollar. 
Now,  I'm  one  of  the  future  gold  medallists  of  tho 
Spring  Salon,  cela  va  sans  dire,  but  in  the  meantime 
I'm  not  above  doing  this." 

"  This  "  was  a  paper  covered  booklet  of  a  flaming 
t.vpt-.  r  took  it  with  some  disfavour.  The  paper  was 
muddy,  the  typn  disreputable,  the  illustrations  lurid. 
Turning  it  over  I  read : 


TICK    M.\RVEM.Ors    PENNVWOBTir    UBRABY 
OK    WORLD    ADVENTI-'RE. 

"Prcfty  rotten,  isn't  it.?"  said  Lorrimor.  "Well, 
you  wouldn't  believe  it,  some  of  these  things  sell  to' 
nearly  quarter  of  a  million.  They  give  the  best  value 
for  the  money  in  their  line.  Fifty  pages  of  straight 
adventure  and  a  dozen  spirited  illustrations  for  a  hum- 
ble copper;  could  you  beat  it?" 

"  Well,  what's  it  got  to  do  with  me?  " 
"  It's  like  this:  I've  been  guilty  of  the  illustrations 
of  two  of  these  masterpieces.  They  were  Wild  West 
stories.  Being  an  American,  though  I've  never  lived 
out  of  Connecticut,  I'm  supposed  to  know  all  about 
Colorado.  Well,  it's  the  firm  of  Shortcake  &  Ham- 
mer that  publish  them,  and  I  happened  to  meet  young 
Percy  Shortcake  when  he  was  on  a  jamboree  in  Paris. 
Over  the  wassail  we  got  free,  so  he  promised  to  put 
some  work  my  way.  Soon  after  I  got  a  commission  to 
illu^1rate  Sureshot,  or  the  Scout's  Revenge;  then  sotnc 


168 


THK  PRETENDER 


inontl.s  after  I  adorned  the  pagts  of  UnlfianJ  the 
Sightrider,  or  the  Prowler  of  the  Prairiet." 

"  I  see.     What's  the  idea  now?  " 

"  Tlie  idea  is  that  you  write  one  of  these  thinifs  and 
I  ilhjstrate  it." 

"  Mv  dear  feUow.  jou  have  too  high  an  opinion  of 
my  powers." 

"Oh,  come  now,  Madden,  try.  You  won't  throw 
me  down,  old  man.  I  n.t.l  the  money.  Supposing 
we  place  it  we'll  g^t  a  ten  pound  note  for  it;  that  will 
he  seven  for  you  and  three  for  me.  Throe  pounds, 
man,  that  w.ll  keep  me  for  a  month,  give  me  time  to 
finish  my  prize  picture  for  the  Salon.  Just  think  what 
•  t  means  to  me,  what  a  crisis  in  mv  fortunes.  Fame 
there  ready  to  crown  me,  and  for  the  want  of  a  measly 
three  quid,  biff!  there  she  chucks  her  crown  back  in 
the  laurel  bin  for  anotlier  year.  Oh,  Madden,  try. 
Vm  sure  you  could  rise  to  the  occasion." 

Thus  approached,  how  could  a  kind-hearted  Irish- 
..mn   refuse.?     Already  I  saw  Lorrimer  gold-medalled, 
glorified;    then    the    reverse   of    the   picture,    Lorrimer 
writhing  m   the   clutches   of  dissipation   and   despair 
Could  I  desert  him?     I  yielded. 

"Good!"  whooped  Lorrimer;  "we'll   make  a  best- 
seller in  Penny-dreadfuldom.     Take  Sureshot  here  as 
a  model.     Here,  too,  are  your  illustrations." 
"My  what?" 

"  The  pictures.  Oh,  yes,  I  did  them  first.  It 
doesn  t^  make  any  difference,  you  can  make  them  fit 
in.  It  s  often  done  that  way.  Half  the  books  pub- 
lished for  Christmas  sale  are  written  up  to  illustra- 
tions that  the  publishers  have  on  hand." 


THE  MERRY  MONTH  OF  MAY         169 

"All  right.  The  illustrations  may  suggest  the 
story." 

Lorrimcr  went  away  exultant.  After  all,  I  thought, 
seven  pounds  won't  be  bad  for  a  week's  work.  So  I 
read  Stireshot  with  some  care.  It  was  divided  into 
twenty  chapters  of  about  a  thousand  words  each,  and 
(Very  chapter  finished  on  a  situation  of  suspense. 
The  sentences  were  jerkily  short ;  each  was  full  of  pith 
and  punch,  and  often  had  a  paragraph  all  to  itself. 
For  example: 

By  one  hand  Sureshot  clung  to  that  creaking  bough. 
Bth.w  him  was  empty  space.  AUne  iiim  leertd  his  f»,-. 
Poisoned  Pup,  black  hate  in  his  f.ice. 

Tlie  branch  cracked  ominously. 

Uith  n  shudder  the  Lone  Scout  looked  down  to  the 
bottom  of  the  abvds.  No  way  of  escape  there.  He  looked 
up  once  more,  and  even  as  he  looked  Poisoned  Pup  raised 
liis  tomahawk  to  sever  the  frail  branch. 

"Perish!  Paleface,"  he  hissed;  "go  down  to  the  Gulf 
of  the  Lost  Ones,  and  let  the  wolves  pick  clean  your  bones." 

Sureshot  felt  that  his  last  hour  had  come. 

"Accursed  Redskin,"  he  cried,  "do  your  worst.  But 
lieware,  for  I  will  be  avenged.  And  now,  O  son  of  a  dojr. 
strike,  strike !  " 

And  there  with  gleaming  eyes  the  intrepid  scout  waited 
for  that  glittering  nxe  to  fall. 

End  of  chapter;  the  next  of  which  artfully  switches, 
and  takes  up  another  thread  of  the  story. 

The  result  of  my  effort  was  that  in  six  days  I  pro- 
duced Daredeath  Dick;  or  the  Scourge  of  the  Sierras. 
Lor  rimer  was  enthusiastic. 

"  Didn't  think  you  had  it  in  you,  old  man.     I'll  ^-t 


170 


THE  PRKTENDKU 


it  off  to  Shortcak*-  &  Ilamnur  at  oiico.      It  will  likely 
Ih'  some  weeks  before  we  ran  hear  from  them." 

Since  then  I  have  been  seeing  quite  a  lot  of  Lorrimer. 
After  all,  our  little  apartment  is  cosiness  itself,  and 
beer  at  four  sous  a  litre  is  ambrosia  within  reach  of 
the  most  modest  purse.  He  talks  vastly  of  his  work 
(with  a  capital  W).  He  arrives  with  the  announce- 
ment that  he  has  just  dropped  in  for  a  quiet  pipe;  in 
an  hour  he  must  be  back  at  his  Work.  Then:  "  Well, 
old  man,  just  another  short  pipe,  and  I  must  really  be 
off."  But  in  the  end  he  takes  his  departure  about  two 
in  the  morning,  sometimes  talking  me  asleep. 

How  he  lives  is  a  mystery.  Any  evening  you  can 
svv  him  in  the  Cafe  D'Harcourt,  or  the  Soufflet,  and 
generally  accompanied  by  Rougette.  When  he  is  in 
funds  he  spends  recklessly.  Once  he  gained  a  prize 
for  a  Moulin  Rouge  poster,  and  celebrated  his  success 
in  a  supper  that  cost  him  three  times  the  value  of  his 
prize.  Sometimes  he  contributes  a  very  naughty 
dniwlng  to  Pages  FoUcs,  and  I  know  that  he  does 
aqttarellea  for  the  long-haired  g(>nius  who  sells  them  on 
the  boulevards,  and  who,  though  he  can  draw  little  else 
than  a  cork  from  a  bottle,  in  aj)pearance  out-rapins  the 

frt/WW.*. 

One  afternoon  I  heard  Helstern  painfidly  toiling  up- 
stairs. 

*•  I've  got  an  idea,"  he  began.  "  Vou  know  as  soon 
as  I  set  eyes  on  the  mother  of  your  little  Solonge  I 
saw  she  was  just  the  type  I've  been  looking  for  for  my 
group.  Maternity.  That  woman's  a  bom  mother,  a 
mother  by  destiny.     See,  here's  a  sketch  of  my  group." 

Helstern's  statues,  I  notice,  seldom  get  beyond  the 
sketch  stage.     This  one  showed  a  mother  suckling  an 


THE  MERRY  MONTH  OF  MAY         171 

Infant  and  gazing  fondly  at  another  little  girl,  who  in 
li«r  turn  was  looking  niatornally  at  the  hahy. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  I  objected  lianally ;  •' Imt 
Frosine  hasn't  got  a  baby.** 

*'  Pooh !  a  mere  trifle.  I'll  soon  supply  the  baby. 
Already  I  see  my  group  crowned  in  the  Salon.  The 
thing's  as  good  as  done.  It  only  remains  for  you  to 
go  down  and  get  the  consent  of  Madam." 

"  Me ! " 

"^Vhy,  yes.  You  know  I'm  no  good  at  talking  to 
women.  It  takes  an  Irishman  to  be  persuasive.  Go 
on,  there's  a  good  fellow." 

Was  I  ever  able  to  resist  an  appeal  to  my  vanity? 
Hut  pretty  soon  I  returned   rather  crestfallen. 

"  It's  no  use,  old  man.  Can't  nuike  anything  of  the 
lady.  I  showed  her  your  sketch;  I  offered  to  provide 
tiie  infant;  I  pointed  out  the  sensation  it  would  make 
in  the  Salon;  no  use.  She  positively  refuses  to  pose; 
prefers  to  sew  lingerie.  If  she  would  be  serious  I 
might  be  able  to  wheedle  her;  but  she  only  laughs,  and 
when  a  woman  laughs  I've  got  to  laugh  with  her.  But 
I  can't  help  thinking  there's  something  at  the  back  of 
her  refusal." 

"  Well,  well,"  sighed  the  big  sculptor,  "  I  give  her 
up.  And  already  I  could  see  the  crowds  admiring  my 
group  as  it  stood  under  the  dome  of  the  Grand  Palace ; 
already  I  could  hear  their  plaudits  ringing  in  my  cars; 
already.  ..." 

Once  more  he  sighed  deeply,  and  went  away. 


May  \5th. 
It  is  so  hot  to-day  that  I  think  Summer  must  have 
taken  the  wrong  cue.     On  the  Houl'  Mich'  the  marron- 


172 


THE  i»ri:ti:nder 


niers  sickin  In  the  stale  air  composed  equally  of  asphalt, 
petrol  and  escaping  gns.  Assyrian  bearded  students 
and  Aubrey  Beardsley  cocoitet  are  sitting  over  opaline 
glasses  in  front  of  the  stifling  cafes,  and  the  dolphins 
in  the  fountains  of  the  Observatory  spout  enthusiasti- 
cally. Now  is  the  time  to  loll  on  a  shaded  bench  in 
the  Luxembourg  Gardens,  and  refrain  from  doing  any- 
thing strenuous. 

So  I  sit  there  dreaming,  and  note  in  a  careless  way 
that  I  am  becoming  conspicuously  shabby.  Because 
the  necessary  franc  for  the  barber  cannot  well  be 
spared,  I  have  allowed  my  hair  to  accunmlate  a'sthetic- 
ally.  Anastasia  loves  it  like  that  —  says  it  makes 
me  look  like  the  great  man  of  letters  I  am:  and  with 
a  piece  of  silk  she  has  made  me  a  Lavallicre  tie. 
More  than  ever  I  feel  like  a  character  in  a  French 
farce. 

My  boots,  I  particularly  note,  need  heeling.     Every 
morning  I  conscientiously  brush  them  before  I  go  out, 
but  invariably  I  am  called  back. 
"  Show  me  your  feet." 
I  bow  before  this  domestic  tyrant. 
"  Oh,  what  a  dirty  boy  it  is.     What  shame  for  me  to 
have  husbands  go  out  like  that." 

"  But  look  !  "  I  protest ;  "  they're  clean.  They  shine 
like  a  mirror.  Why,  you  can  see  your  face  in  them  — 
if  you  look  hard  enough." 

"But  the  heels!  Look  at  the  heels.  Why  you 
have  not  brush  them.  Oh,  I  nevaire  see  child  like  that. 
You  just  brush  in  front." 

"Well,  how  can  I  see  the  heels?  I'm  no  contor- 
tionist." 

"Oh,  mon  Dint!     He  l)rush  his  boots  after  he  puts 


THE  MERRY  MONTH  OF  MAY  173 

thrill  on.     Oh,  what  a  cabbage  head  I  have  for  hus- 
band ! " 

"  Well,  isn't  that  the  right  way?  " 
"  Xom  d'un  chien!     Give  mo  your  patte." 
Thni  what  a  storm  if  I  try  to  go  out  with  a  hole  in 
my  socks! 

"Oh,  dear!  I  nevaire  see  man  like  that.  Suppose 
you  get  keel  in  the  street,  and  some  one  take  off  your 
boots,  sink  how  you  are  shamed.  What  shame  for  me, 
too,  if  I  have  husbands  keel  wiz  hole  in  his  sock!" 

In  addition  to  her  other  duties  I  have  made  her  my 
Secretary.  Alas!  I  must  confess  some  of  my  valiant 
manuscripts  have  come  sneaking  back  with  unflattering 
promptitude.  It  is  a  new  experience  and  a  bitter  one. 
Vet  I  think  my  chief  concern  is  that  Anastasia's  faith 
in  me  should  be  shattered.  After  the  first  unbelieving 
moment  I  threw  the  things  aside  in  disgust. 

"  They're  no  good.     Til  never  send  them  out  again." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,  darleen.  You  geeve  to  me 
and  I  send  away  some  more." 

"  Do  what  you  like,"  I  answered  savagely.  «'  Rut 
don't  let  me  see  the  beastly  things  again.  And  don't," 
I  added  thoughtfully,  "send  them  twice  to  the  same 
place." 

So  what  is  happening  I  know  not,  though  the  ex- 
pense for  stamps  is  a  grievous  one.  She  has  a  list  of 
periodicals  and  is  posting  the  things  somewhere.  Per- 
haps she  may  blunder  luckily.  Anyway,  I  don't  care. 
I'm  sick  of  them. 


May  SOth. 
Some  days   ago  I  was   sitting  by   the  gate  of  the 
Luxembourg  that  fronts  the  bust  of  St.  Bvuve.     That 


nt 


THE  PRETENDER 


fJriJ',  vlirowtl  face  socined  to  smile  at  inc  with  pawky 
kindliiifss,  a^  if  to  s.iy :  "Don't  de<*j)uir,  young  men; 
sei'k,  Mrk,  for  the  luminotiH  idea  will  come." 

Hut  just  thin  it  was  more  pkasant  to  dreauj  than 
to  s.ek.  A  slim  pine  threw  on  the  sun-flooded  lawn 
its  purple  pool  of  shadow;  in  the  warm  breeze  a  thick- 
set yiw  heaved  gently;  a  livrly  acacia  twinkled  and 
fhitten-d;  a  silver-stemmed  hirch  toss,-d  enthusiastic- 
plumes.  Over  a  bank  of  golden  lilies  bright-winged 
butterflies  were  hovering,  and  in  a  glade  beyond  there 
was  a  patch  of  creamy  hyacinths.  Against  the  ivy 
that  mantled  an  old  oak,  the  white  dr.ss  of  a  girl  out- 
gleaiiied,  and  her  hat,  scarlet  as  a  praniu!!i,  mad-'  ;. 
sparkling  note  of  colour. 

Then,  as  she  drew  near  I  saw  it  was  Anastasia,  and 
she  was  much  excited.  I  wondered  why.  Is  then- 
anything  in  this  world,  I  asked  myself, 'worth  while- 
getting  excited  about?  Just  then  I  was  inclined  to 
think  not;  so  I  smoked  on  imperturbal.lv.  Th.- 
vacuum  in  my  life  made  by  the  lack  of  tobacco  ha«l 
b.-t-n  more  than  I  could  bear,  and  I  had  taken  to  thosi 
cheap  packets  of  Caporal,  cigarettes  blates,  whose 
luxuriant  whiskers  I  surreptitiously  trimmed  with 
Anastasia's  embroidery  scissors.  Never  shall  I  be  one 
of  those  kill-joys  who  recommend  young  men  not  to 
smoke  — in  the  meantime  filling  up  their  own  pipes 
with  particular  gusto. 

"Hullo,  Little  Thing!     Why  this  unexpected  pleas- 
ure?" 

"Oh,  I  search  you  everywhere.     See!     There's  let- 
ter from  editor." 

"So  it  is;  and  judging  by  your  excitement  it  must 
contam  at  least  twenty  pounds.     Already  I  wallow  in 


THE  MERRV  MONTH  OF  MAY  175 

tlu"  sands  of  Pactolus.  .  .  .  Vcs,  you're  right:  A 
ilii-quc.  How  long  it  seems  since  I've  seen  a  cheque! 
Let's  sec  —  why!  it's  for  a  whole  guinea." 

Her  eyes  ghftintd  with  pleasure,  ami  she  clapped 
her  hands. 

"In  payment,"  I  went  on,  "of  the  article  llov  to 
he  a  Successful  Wife,  from  the  editor  of  Unhi/'s  Oum 
a  weekly  Magazine  specially  devoted  to  the  Xurserv." 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  send  heem  zere.  I  sink  it's  so  chic, 
that  magazine." 

"  Well,  I  congratulate  you  on  your  first  success  as 
a  literary  agent.  You  deserve  your  ten  per  cent,  com- 
mission. It  isn't  the  Eldorado  of  our  dreams,  hut  it  will 
enahle  us  to  carry  out  some  neetled  sartorial  reforms. 
For  example,  I  may  now  get  my  hoots  persuaded  to  a 
luw  lease  of  life,  while  you  can  buy  some  stuff  for  a 
lilouse.     How  much  can  we  do  on  twenty-six  francs.'" 

Hetween  Necessary  Expenditure  and  Cash  in  Ham! 
the  ilifference  was  appalling,  hut  after  elaborate  debate 
the  money  was  duly  appropriated.  From  this  time  on 
An.istasia  became  more  energetic  than  ever  in  her  con- 
sumption of  postage.  It  was  about  this  time,  too,  I 
noticed  she  ate  very  sparingly.  On  my  taxing  her, 
she  declared  she  was  dieting.  She  was  afraid,  she  said, 
of  getting  fat.  On  which  I  decided  I  also  was  getting 
fat:  I,  too,  must  diet.  Every  one,  we  agreed,  ate 
too  much.  I  for  one  (I  vowed)  could  do  bettor  work 
on  a  mess  of  pottage  than  on  all  the  fleshpots  of 
f^g.vpt-  So  the  expenses  of  our  menage  began  to  take 
.1  very  low  figure  indeed. 

At  the  same  time  "Soup  of  the  Onion"  began  to 
make  its  appearance  with  a  monotonous  frequency. 
It  is  made  by  frying  the  fragments  of  one  of  these 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION   TEST   CHART 

ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2 


1^ 

Ilia 

j|||25 

■^ 

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1^ 

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1.8 


^     ^IPPLIELJ  INA^GE 


'6ji   East    Ma.r--    '_  feet 

("6)    48;    -  030C  -  Pf,one 
("6)    288  -  5989   -  ra. 


1T6 


THE  niETENDER 


vegetables  till  it  is  nearly  black.  You  then  add  hot 
water,  boil  a  little,  strain.  The  result  is  a  warm,  yel- 
lowiph  liquor  of  onionish  suggestion,  which  an  ardent 
imagination  may  transform  into  a  delicate  and  nour- 
ishing soup  —  and  which  costs  about  one  sou. 

A  sudden  reversion,  however,  to  a  more  generous 
cuisine  aroused  my  suspicion,  and,  on  visiting  the  little 
embroidery  shop,  again  I  saw  some  of  her  work.  I 
made  a  rapid  calculation.  Of  rnv  personal  possessions 
there  only  remained  to  me  my  gold  signet  ring,  and 
the  seal  that  had  hung  at  the  end  of  my  chain.  For 
the  first  I  got  fifty  francs,  for  the  second,  twenty.  So 
for  thirty  francs  I  bought  her  work,  and  locked  it 
away  with  the  cushion  cover. 

I  am  really  beginning  to  despair,  to  think  I  shall 
have  to  give  in.  Oh,  the  bitterness  of  surrender! 
All  that  is  mulish  in  me  revolts  at  the  thought.  For 
myself  rather  would  I  starve  than  be  beaten,  but  there 
is  the  girl,  she  must  not  bo  allowed  to  suffer. 


Mai/  31  »f. 

This  has  been  a  happy  day,  such  a  happy  day  as 
never  before  have  I  known.  This  morning  Lorrimer 
burst  into  my  apartment  flourishing  a  cheque  for  The 
Scourge  of  the  Sierras.  Shortcake  &  Hammer  ex- 
pressed themselves  as  well  pleased,  and  sent  —  not  ten 
pounds  but  twelve. 

"  I  tell  you  what ! "  cried  the  artist  excitedly, 
••  we*vc  got  to  celebrate  your  success  as  a  popular 
author.  We'll  spend  the  extra  two  pounds  on  a  din- 
ner. We'll  ask  Rougette  and  Helstern,  and  we'll  have 
it  to-night  in  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt." 

He  is  one  of  these  human  steam-rollers  who  crush 


THE  MERRY  MONTH  OF  MAY 


177 


down  all  opposition;  so  that  night  we  five  met  in  the 
merriest  cafe  in  the  Boul'  Mich'.  Below  its  hizarre 
frescoes  of  stur?'>nt  life  we  had  our  tahle,  and  consider- 
ing that  foui  . '■  us  did  not  know  where  the  next  month's 
rent  was  coming  from  we  were  a  notably  gay  party. 

Oh,  you  unfortunates  who  dine  well  every  day  of 
your  lives,  little  do  you  guess  the  gastronomic  bliss  of 
those  whose  lives  are  one  long  Lent !  Never  could 
you  liave  vanquished,  as  we,  that  host  of  insidious 
hors-d\vuvres;  never  beset  as  we  that  bouillon  with 
the  brown  bread  drowned  in  it.  How  the  crisp  fried 
soles  shrank  in  their  shrimp  sauce  at  the  spectacle  of 
our  devouring  rage,  and  the  filet  mignon  hid  in  fear 
under  its  juicy  mushrooms !  The  salad  of  chicken 
and  haricots  verts  seemed  to  turn  still  greener  with 
terror,  and,  as  it  vanished  in  total  rout,  after  it  we 
hurled  a  bomb  of  Neapolitan  ice  cream.  And  the  wine! 
How  splendid  to  have  all  the  Beaune  one  wants  after 
a  course  of  "  Chateau  La  Pompe ! "  And  those  two 
bottles  of  sunshine  and  laughter  from  the  vaults  of 
Rheims  —  not  more  radiantly  did  they  overflow  than 
did  our  spirits!  And  so  sipping  our  cafh  fltre,  we 
watched  the  crowd  and  all  the  world  looked  glorious. 

The  place  had  filled  with  the  usual  mob  of  students, 
models  and  fiUes-de-joie,  and  the  scene  was  of  more 
than  the  usual  gaiety.  The  country  had  just  been 
swept  by  a  wave  of  military  enthusiasm ;  patriotism 
was  rampant ;  the  female  orchestra  perspired  in  its 
efforts  to  be  heard.  Every  one  seemed  to  be  thumping 
on  tables  with  bocks,  and  two  hundred  voices  were 
singing: 

"  Encore  un  petit  vfrre  de  vin  pour  nous  mettre  en  route; 
Kncore  un  petit  verrc  de  vln  pour  nous  mettre  en  train." 


178 


THE  PRETENDER 


Some  one  started  Fragson's  En  avant,  mea  petit s 
Gars,  and  there  was  more  stamping,  .shouting  and 
hinging  of  bocks.  Then  the  orchestra  broke  into  the 
melody  for  which  all  were  longing: 

"  AHons,   cnfants    dc   la    Patrir, 
!-<>  joiir  de   gloirc  rst  arrivr.' 

All  were  up  on  their  seats  now,  and  the  song  finished 
in  a  furore  of  enthusiasm. 

The  generous  wine  had  afTcctod  us  three  men  differ- 
ently. Lorrimer  was  loquacious,  Helstern  glooniy, 
while  I  was  inclined  to  sleep. 

"  Bah !  "  Helstern  was  saying:  "  This  fire  and  fury, 
what  is  it.'  A  mask  to  hide  a  desperate  uneasiness. 
Poor  France!  There  she  is  like  some  overfat  ewe; 
there  is  the  Prussian  Wolf  waiting;  but  look!  between 
them  the  paw  of  the  Lion."  * 

He  represented  the  fat  ewe  with  the  sugar  bowl,  the 
Wolf  with  the  cream  jug,  and  laid  his  big  hand  in 
between. 

"Poor  France!"  broke  in  the  girls;  Rougette  was 
more  brilliantly  pretty  than  ever,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
with  indignation.  Even  the  gentle  Anastasia  was 
roused  to  mild  resentment. 

"  Yes,"  went  on  Helstern,  "  you're  a  great  race,  but 
you're  too  old.  You've  got  to  go  as  they  all  went, 
Greece,  Rome,  Italy,  Spain.  England  will  follow, 
then  Germany,  last  of  ail  Russia." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake ! "  broke  in  Lorrimer  noisily, 
**  don't  let  him  get  on  the  subject  of  International 
Destinies.  What  does  it  matter  to  us.?  To-day's  the 
only  time  worth  considering.     Let's  think  of  our  own 

•  Thii  was  written  in  ttie  Spring  of  1914. 


THE  MERRY  MONTH  OF  MAY 


179 


(l(>liiiic> :  mine  as  the  coming  (Jerome,  Hilstern's  as 
the  coming  Rodin,  and  Madden's  as  the  coming  Syl- 
vanus  Cohb." 

But  I  did  not  heed  him.  Drowsy  content  had  pos- 
session of  me.  "Seven  pounds,"  I  was  thinking; 
"  that  means  the  sinews  of  war  for  another  month. 
Oh,  if  I  could  onlv  get  some  kind  of  an  idea  for  that 
novel!     What   is  Lorrimcr  babbling  about  now,?" 

"  Marriage,"  he  was  saying ;  "  I  don't  believe  in 
marriage.  The  first  year  people  are  married  they  are 
happy,  the  second  contented,  the  third  resigned. 
There  sljould  be  a  new  deal  every  three  years.  Why, 
if  '•  general  dispensation  of  divorce  were  to  be  granted, 
half  of  the  married  couples  would  break  away  so  quick 
it  would  make  your  head  swim." 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,  you  are  shocking,"  said  Anastasia. 

"  What  shocks  to-day  is  a  commonplace  to-morrow. 
There  will  come  a  time  when  the  custom  that  condemns 
a  couple  to  bore  one  another  for  life  will  be  considered 
a  barbaric  one.  Why  penalise  people  eternally  for 
the  aberration  of  a  season?  Three  year  marriages 
would  give  life  back  its  colour,  its  passion,  its  romance. 
People  so  soon  grow  physically  indifferent  to  each 
other.  Flavoured  with  domesticity  kisses  lose  their 
rapture." 

"  You  have  the  sentiments  epouventahle"  said  Anas- 
tasia.    "Wiiit  till  you  have  marry." 

"  Me !  You'll  never  see  me  in  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  matrimony.  Would  you  spoil  a  good  lover 
by  making  an  indifferent  husband  of  him?  No,  we 
never  care  for  the  things  we  have,  and  we  always  want 
those  we  haven't.  If  I  were  married  to  Helen  of 
Troy  I'd  be  sneaking  .side  glances  at  some  little  Mimi 


180 


THE  PRETENDER 


Pinson  across  the  way.  And  by  the  same  token, 
Madam,  keep  your  eye  on  that  husband  of  yours,  for 
even  now  he's  looking  pretty  hard  at  some  one  else." 
And  indeed  I  was,  for  there  across  the  room  was  the 
girl  from  Naples,  Lucrczia  Poppolini. 


CHAPTER  nil 

"TOM,  DICK  AND  HARRY" 

The  partner  who  managed  the  forwarding  department 
of  the  firm  of  Madden  &  Company  reported  to  the 
partner  who  represented  its  manufacturing  end  that 
the  editor  of  the  Babbler  had  accepted  his  story 
77j<*  Microbe,  for  one  of  his  weekly  Tabloid  Talcs. 
A  cheque  was  enclosed  for  three  guineas. 

The  manufacturing  partner  looked  up  in  a  dazed 
way  from  his  manuscript,  tapped  his  mighty  brain 
to  {juicken  recollection  of  the  story  in  question,  signi- 
fied his  approval,  and  bent  again  to  his  labours.  Being 
in  the  heart  of  a  novel  he  dreaded  distraction.  These 
necessary  recognitions  of  every  day  existence  made 
it  harder  for  him  to  lift  himself  back  again  into  his 
world  of  dream. 

However,  in  his  sustained  fits  of  abstraction  he  had  a 
worthy  ally  in  the  forwarding  partner.  Things  came 
to  his  hand  in  the  most  magical  way,  and  his  every 
wish  seemed  anticipated.  It  was  as  if  the  whole 
schinie  of  life  conspired  to  favour  the  flow  of  inspira- 
tion. Thus,  when  he  was  quietly  told  that  lunch  was 
ready,  and  instead  of  eating  would  gaze  vacantly  at 
the  Imtter,  there  was  no  suggestion  of  his  impending 
insanity;  neither,  when  he  poured  tea  into  the  sugar 
basin  instead  of  into  his  cup,  was  there  any  demon- 
stration of  alarm. 

On   the  other  hand   the   forwarding  partner  might 

often  have  been  seen  turning  over  the  English  maga- 

iftl 


182 


Tin:  pui:Ti:Ni)Eu 


/inos  displayed  in  front  of  the  booksellers,  and  noting 
their  office  addresses.  She  was  wonderfully  persistent, 
hut  wofully  unfortunate.  Even  the  New  York-Lon- 
don article,  which  the  manufacturing  partner  had  told 
her  to  send  to  the  Gotham  Gleaner,  had  been  returned. 
The  editor  was  a  personal  friend  of  his,  and  had  the 
article  been  signed  in  his  own  name  would  probably 
have  taken  it.  As  it  was  it  did  not  get  beyond  a 
sub-editor. 

"  Throw  the  thing  into  the  fire,"  he  said  savagely 
when  she  told  him ;  but  she  promptly  sent  it  to  the 
Sunday  Magazine  section  of  the  Xerc  York  Monitor. 
After  that  she  was  silent  on  the  subject  of  returned 
manuscripts. 

I  have  forbidden  Anastasia  to  sell  any  more  em- 
broidery, so  that  she  no  longer  spends  long  and  late 
hours  over  her  needle.  Instead  she  hovers  about  me 
anxiously,  doing  her  work  with  the  least  possible  com- 
motion. 

I  have  given  her  the  forty  francs  remaining  from 
the  sale  of  my  seal  and  ring,  and  that,  with  the  three 
guineas  from  the  Babbler,  is  enough  to  carry  us  on  for 
another  month.  It  is  extraordinary  how  we  just 
manage  to  scrape  along. 

I  wish  to  avoid  all  financial  worry  just  now.  ^ly 
story  has  taken  hold  of  me  and  is  writing  itself  at 
the  rate  of  three  thousand  words  a  da}-.  No  time  now 
to  spend  on  meticulous  considerations  of  style;  as  I 
try  to  put  down  my  teeming  thoughts  my  pencil  cannot 
travel  fast  enough.  It  is  the  same  frenzy  of  narration 
with  which  I  rattled  off  The  Haunted  Taxicah  and  its 
fellow  culprits.     If  at  times  that  new-born  conscience 


"  TOM,  DICK  AND  HARRY 


183 


of  iiiino  gives  iiu'  qualms,  1  dull  them  with  the  thought 
that  it  is  just  a  tale  told  to  amuse  and  —  oh,  how  I 
r..t'(l  111.   liionpy ! 

And  now  to  come  to  my  novel,  Tom,  Dick  and 
Ilorrif. 

Three  cockney  clerks  on  a  ten  days'  vacation,  are 
tramping  over  a  desolate  moor  in  Wales.  Tom  is  a 
dreamer  with  a  turn  for  literature;  Dick  an  adventurer 
who  hates  his  desk ;  Harry  an  entertainer,  with  remote 
designs  on  the  stage. 

The  scenery  is  wild  and  rugged.  The  road  winds 
between  great  boulders  that  suggest  a  prehistoric  race. 
The  wind  of  the  moor  brings  a  glow  to  their  cheeks, 
and  their  pipes  are  in  full  blast.  Suddenly  outspeaks 
Tom : 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  funny,  you  fellows,  if  a  man  clad  in 
skins  were  suddenly  to  dodge  out  from  behind  one  of 
these  rocks,  and  we  were  to  find  that  we  were  back  in 
the  world  of  a  thousand  years  ago  —  just  as  we 
are  now,  you  know,  with  all  our  knowledge  of  things?  " 

"  It  wouldn't  be  funny  at  all,"  said  Dick.  "  How 
could  we  make  use  of  our  knowledge?  W^hat  would 
we  do  for  a  living?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Tom  thoughtfully,  "  I  think  I  would 
go  in  for  the  prophecy  business.  I  could  foretell 
things  that  were  going  to  happen,  and  —  yes,  I  think 
I'd  try  my  hand  at  literary  plagiarism.  With  all  my 
reading  I  could  rehash  enough  modem  yarns  to  put  all 
the  tribal  story-tellers  out  of  business.  I'd  become 
the  greatest  yam-spinner  in  the  world.  What  would 
you  do,  Hal?*" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  I'd  have  any  trouble,"  said  Harry. 
"  I'd    become   the    King's    harper.     I    think    I    could 


184 


THE  PRETENDER 


vamp  on  the  liarp  all  right.  I'd  revive  all  the  popular 
songs  of  the  last  ten  years,  all  the  minstrel  songs,  all 
the  sentimental  ballads,  all  the  national  airs,  and  I'd 
set  them  to  topical  words.  I'd  become  the  greatest 
minstrel   in    the   world.     Now,   Dick,   it's   your   turn." 

Dick  considered  for  so  long  that  they  fancied  he  was 
at  a  loss.     At  last  he  drew  a  deep  l)reath. 

"  I   know  —  I'd   discover  America." 

They  thought  no  more  about  it,  and  next  day  went 
gaily  a-dimbing  a  local  mountain.  But  Tom,  who 
was  a  poor  climber,  lagged  behind  his  companions,  and 
began  to  slip.  Clawing  frantically  at  the  rough  rock 
over  the  edge  of  the  bluff  he  went,  and  fell  to  the 
bottom  with  a  crash. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  his  head  ached  horribly. 
Putting  up  his  hand  he  found  his  scalp  clotted  with 
blood.  The  heavy  mist  shut  off  everything  but  a 
small  circle  all  round  him.  As  he  lay  wondering 
what  had  become  of  his  companions,  suddenlv  he  be- 
came aware  of  strange  people  regarding  him.  Grad- 
ually they  ame  nearer  and  he  saw  that  they  were  clad 
in  skins. 

Well,  they  take  him  prisoner  and  carry  him  off  to 
their  village,  where  their  head-man  questions  him  in  an 
uncouth  dialect.  Then  they  send  for  a  sage  who  also 
questions  him,  and  is  much  mystified  at  his  replies. 
"  This  wise  greybeard,"  thinks  Tom,  "  seems  to  know 
less  than  an  average  school-boy." 

Then  comes  the  news  that  two  more  of  the  strange 
creatures  have  been  captured.  Once  again  the  trio 
arc  united. 

"  It's  a  rum  go,"  said  Ditk.  "  Seems  we've  slipped 
back  a  thousand  vears." 


"TOM,  DICK  AND  HARRY 


185 


"  Wliat  particular  period  of  liistory  linve  we  climbed 
off  at?"  cletnaiulecl  Harry. 

"  It  looks  to  nic,"  said  Tom,  "  as  if  we  wi-ro  in 
Saxon  Kngland,  just  before  the  Normiin  Invasion. 
From  what  the  old  gentleman  tells  me  Harold  is  the 
big  chief." 

"What  will  we  do?" 

"  Seems  to  me  we'll  be  all  right.  With  a  thousand 
years  or  so  of  experience  ahead  of  those  fellows  we 
ought  to  become  great  men  in  this  land.  W^e  were 
mighty  small  fry  in  old  London.  I  wish  I  was  an 
engineer,    I'd    invent    gunpowder   or    something." 

'•  We'd  better  carry  out  our  original  plans,"  said 
Dick. 

By  and  by  came  messengers  from  the  king,  who 
wished  to  see  these  strange  beings  descended  on  his 
earth  from  a  star.  And,  indeed,  it  seemed  to  the  three 
friends  as  if  they  had  really  dropped  on  some  planet  a 
thousand  years  less  advanced  than  ours  (for  given 
similar  beginnings  and  conditions,  will  not  history  go 
on  repeating  itself?).  In  any  case,  the  king  received 
them  with  wonder  and  respect,  and  straightway  they 
were  attached  to  the  royal  household. 

(Jradually  they  adapted  themselves  to  medittval 
ways,  became  accustomed  to  sleeping  on  straw,  and  to 
eating  like  pigs;  but  even  to  the  last  they  did  not  cease 
to  deplore  the  absence  of  small-tooth  combs  in  the 
toikt  equipment  of  the  royal  family. 

The  book  goes  on  to  trace  the  fortunes  of  each  of  its 
three  heroes.  It  tells  how  Harry  captivated  the  court 
with  a  buck-and-wing  dance,  set  them  turkey-trotting 
to  the  strains  of  "  Hitchy  Koo,"  and  bunny-hugging  to 
the    melody    of    "Down    the    Mississippi."     He    even 


18G 


THE  PRETENDER 


opened  n  private  class  for  lessons  in  the  Tango,  and 
initiated  'I'ango  Teas  in  which  inrad  replaced  the  fra- 
grant orang*'  pekoe  He  invented  the  first  banjo,  de- 
moralised the  court  with  the  first  ragtime.  You  should 
have  heard  King  Harold  joining  in  the  cliorus  of 
"  Waiting  for  the  Robert  E.  Lee,"  or  singing  as  a 
solo  "  You  Made  Me  Love  You."  Decidedly  Harry 
bid  fair  to  be  the  most  popular  man  in  the  kingdom. 

But  Tom  was  running  him  a  pretty  close  race.  He 
had  become  the  Royal  Story-teller,  and  nightly  held 
them  breathless  while  he  thrilled  them  with  such  mar- 
vels as  horseless  chariots,  men  who  fly  with  wings,  and 
lightning  harnessed  till  it  makes  the  night  like  day. 
Yet  when  he  hinted  that  such  things  may  even  come 
to  pass,  what  a  howl  of  derision  went  up! 

"  Ah,  no ! "  cried  King  Harold,  "  these  be  not  the 
deeds  of  men  but  of  the  very  gods."  And  all  the  wise 
men  of  the  land  wagged  their  grey  beards  in  approval. 

So  after  that  he  gave  Truth  the  cold  shoulder,  and 
found  fiction  more  grateful.  He  reconstructed  all  the 
stock  plots  of  to-day,  giving  them  a  Saxon  setting: 
and  the  characters  that  had  taken  the  strongest  hold 
on  the  popular  imagination  he  rehabilitated  in  Saxon 
guise.  The  most  childish  tales  would  suffice.  Night 
after  night  would  he  rivet  their  attention  with 
"  Aladdin  "  or  "  Bluebeard,"  or  "  Jack  and  the  Bean- 
stalk." Just  as  Harry  had  made  all  the  minstrels  rend 
their  harp-strings,  in  despair,  so  Tom  made  all  the 
story-tellers  blush  with  shame,  and  take  to  the  Hinter- 
lands. 

Poor  Dick,  however,  was  having  a  harder  time  of  it. 
Like  a  man  inspired  he  was  raving  of  a  wonderful  land 
many  day«  sail  beyond  the  sea.     But  the  stolid  Saxons 


t(  '1 


rOM,  DICK  AM)  HARRY  " 


187 


rifiised    to    believe   him.     "  Fancy   believing   one    who 
>;ivs  the  world  is  round!     Surely  the  man  is  mad." 

At  last  he  fell  in  with  some  Danes  who,  seeing  an 
opportunity  for  piracy,  agreed  to  let  him  be  their  pilot 
to  this  golden  land.  They  fitted  out  a  vessel,  and 
saikd  away  to  the  West.  But  they  were  storm-driven 
for  many  days,  and  finally  their  boat  was  wrecked  on 
the  Arran  Islands. 

In  the  meantime,  William  the  Conqueror  came  on 
tlie  scene,  and  King  Harold,  refusing  to  listen  to  the 
warning  of  Tom,  gave  fight  to  the  Norman.  Then 
Tom  and  Harry  beheld  with  their  modern  eyes  that 
epoch-making  battle. 

"  Oh,  for  a  hundred  men  armed  with  modern  rifles !  " 
said  Tom.     "  Then  we  could  conquer  the  whole  world." 

But  with  the  subjugation  of  the  Saxon,  dark  days 
follow  for  the  three  friends.  Harry,  trying  to  get  a 
footing  in  the  new  court,  and  struggling  with  the  new 
language,  is  stabbed  by  a  jealous  court  jester.  Dick, 
having  escaped  from  the  irate  Danes,  marries  an  Irish 
princess  and  becomes  one  of  the  Irish  kings.  Tom, 
continuing  to  indulge  in  his  gift  for  prophecy,  incurs 
the  dislike  of  the  Church  and  is  thrown  into  prison. 
Then  one  bright  morning  he  is  led  to  be  executed.  He 
lays  his  head  on  the  block.  The  executioner  raises 
liis  axe.     There  is  sudden  blankness.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  very  interesting  case,"  he  hears  the  doctor 
saying.  "  Fell  thirty  feet.  Came  nasty  whack  on  the 
rocks.  We've  trepanned  .  .  .  expect  him  to  recover 
consciousness  quite  soon.  .  .  ." 


One  morning,  aboui   the  beginning  of  July,  I  was 
leading  Dick  through  a  whirl  of  adventu'-e  in  the  wilds 


188 


THE  PRKTENDER 


of  darkest  Ireland,  when  Anastasia  entered.  I  looked 
at  her  blankly. 

"  Hullo  !     What's  wrong  now?  " 

"  Oh !  I  inn  desolate.  Please  excuse  me  for  trouble 
you,  durleen,  but  there  is  no  help  for  it.  We  have 
forget  the  rent,  and  once  more  it  is  necessary  to  be 
paid." 

"  Oh,  the  rent,  the  awful,  inevitable  rent !  What 
a  cursed  institution  it  is!  Well,  Little  Thing,  I've 
no  money." 

"What  we  do,  darleen.?" 

"  It's  very  unfortunate.  I'm  getting  on  so  nicely 
with  my  novel,  and  here  I.  have  to  break  off  and  worry- 
over  matters  of  sordid  finance." 

"  I'm  so  sorry.  Let  me  sell  some  of  my  hem-hroderie, 
I  sink  I  catch  some  money  for  that." 

"  \o,  I  hate  to  let  you  do  that.  Stop !  We'll  com- 
promise. Give  me  what  you  have  and  I'll  put  it  '  up 
the  spout.'     It  will  be  only  for  a  little  while." 

So  she  gave  me  a  cushion  cover,  two  centre  pieces, 
and  some  little  mats. 

"  How  much  money  is  left  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Only  about  eleven  franc." 

"Hum!  That  won't  help  us  much.  All  right. 
I^-ave  it  to  me,  and  whatever  you  do,  don't  worry. 
I'll  raise  the  wind  somehow." 

So  I  took  the  suitcase,  with  the  pieces  of  enibroidery 
I  had  previously  bought,  and  carried  the  whole  thing 
to  the  Mont  de  Piete.  I  realised  seventy  francs  for 
the  whole  thing. 

"  There  you  are,"  I  said  on  my  return.  "  With  the 
eleven  francs  you  have,  that  makes  •.'ighty-one.     You'd 


"  TOM,  DICK  AND  HARRY  "  189 

better  pay  the  rent  for  one  month  only.  Then  we 
will  have  forty  francs  left.  We  can  struggle  along  on 
that  for  two  weeks.  By  that  time  something  else  will 
be  sure  to  turn  up." 

Something  did  turn  up  —  the  very  next  day.  The 
I'ditor  of  a  cheap  Weekly  who  had  already  begun  to 
make  plans  for  his  special  Christmas  number,  wrote  and 
oft'cred  to  take  my  diphtheria  story  if  I  would  give  it 
a  Christmas  setting.  I  growled,  and  used  shocking 
l.inguagc,  but  in  the  end  I  laid  aside  my  novel  and  re- 
clirisceaing  the  story  My  Terrible  Christmag,  I  made 
the  necessary  changes.  Result:  another  cheque  for  a 
guinea. 

How  she  managed  to  last  out  the  balance  of  the 
month  on  an  average  of  two  francs  a  day  I  never  knew. 
I  discontinued  my  morning  wulks,  giving  all  my  time 
to  my  novel,  and  thinking  of  nothing  else.  I  was 
dimly  conscious  that  once  more  we  were  in  the  "  Soup 
of  th<  Onion  "  zone,  but  as  I  sat  down  dazed  to  my 
mials  1  scarce  knew  what  I  ate.  I  was  all  keyed  up, 
with  my  eyes  on  the  goal.  I  would  compose  whole 
chiipters  in  my  dreams,  and  sleeping  or  waking,  my 
mind  was  never  off  my  work. 

Then  came  an  evil  week  when  the  power  of  produc- 
tion completely  left  me.  How  I  cursed  and  fretted. 
I  was  sick  of  the  whole  trade  of  writing.  What  a  sorry 
craft !  And  my  work  was  rotten.  I  hated  it.  A  fog 
overhung  my  brain.  I  saw  the  whole  world  with  dis- 
tempered eyes.  I  started  out  on  long  walks  around 
the  fortifications,  and  as  I  walked  everything  seemed 
unreal  to  me.  I  was  like  an  automaton ;  I  seemed  to 
lose  all  sense  of  mv  identity.     Yet  the  fresh  air  was 


190 


THE  rilETENDER 


good  to  mc,  and  the  weaving  of  green  leaves  had  a 
strange  swoetness.  The  river,  too,  soothed  me;  then 
one  day  all  my  interest  in  the  world  came  back. 

At  six  o'clock  that  evening  I  began  to  work,  and  all 
night  through  I  wrote  like  a  madman.  As  I  finished 
covering  a  sheet  I  would  throw  it  on  the  floor  and  grab 
fi  fresh  one.  I  was  conscious  that  my  wrist  ached 
infernally.  The  dawn  came  and  found  me  still  writing, 
my  face  drawn,  my  eyes  staring  vaguely.  Then  at 
(l(?ven  in  the  morning  I  had  finished.  I  was  islanded 
in  a  sea  of  sheets,  over  twelve  thousand  words. 

"  Please  pick  them  up  for  me,"  1  asked  her.  "  I'm 
afraid  it's  awful  stuff,  but  I  just  had  to  go  on.  Every- 
thing seemed  so  plain,  and  I  just  wanted  to  get  it  down 
and  out  of  my  mind.  Well,  it's  done,  my  novel's  done. 
See,  I've  written  the  sweetest  of  all  words:  Finis. 
But  I'm  so  tired.  No,  I  don't  want  any  lunch.  I'll 
just  lie  down  a  bit." 

With  a  feeling  of  happiness  that  was  like  a  flood  of 
sunshine  I  crept  into  bed,  and  there  I  slept  till  eight  of 
the  following  morning.  Next  day  all  I  did  was  to  loaf 
around  the  Luxembourg  in  the  joyance  of  leaf  and 
flower.  I  was  still  fagged,  but  so  happy.  As  I 
smoked  a  tranquil  pipe  I  watched  the  children  on  the 
merry-go-round.  They  were  given  little  spears,  with 
which  to  tilt  at  rings  hung  round  the  course,  and  if 
they  bagged  a  certain  number  they  were  entitled  to  a 
scat  for  the  next  round.  To  watch  the  rosy  and 
eager  faces  of  these  youthful  knights  on  their  fiery 
steeds,  as  they  rode  with  lances  couched,  was  a  gentle 
specific  for  the  soul. 

Yes,  evcrytlnng  seomod  <n  good,  so  bright,  so  benef- 
icent.    I   loved  that   picture   full  of   freshness,  gaiety 


"TOM,  DICK  AND  HARRY"  191 

and  youth.  Anastasia  and  the  Momc  joined  me,  and 
we  listened  to  the  band  under  the  niarronnicrs.  Then 
we  h'ngered  on  the  Terrace  of  the  Queen's  to  watch 
the  skj  behind  the  Toxcer  Eiffel  kindle  to  a  glow  of 
amber,  and  a  wondrous  golden  tide  o'erflooding  the 
rrroves  till  each  leaf  seemed  radiant  and  the  fountain 
txultcd  in  a  spray  of  flame. 

Suddenly  the  Mome  gave  a  cry  of  delight.  Listen! 
In  the  distance  we  could  hear  a  noise  like  a  hum  of 
bees.  It  is  the  little  soldier,  who  every  evening  at 
closing  time,  parades  the  garden  with  his  drum,  warn- 
ing every  one  it  is  time  to  go.  This  to  the  children  is 
the  crown  of  all  the  happy  day.  Hasten  Sylvere  and 
Yvonne  —  it  is  the  little  soldier.  Fall  in  line,  Francois 
and  Odette,  we  must  march  to  the  music.  Gather  round 
Cyprille,  Maurice,  Victoire:  follow  to  the  rattle  of  the 
drum.  Here  he  comes,  the  little  blue  and  red  soldier. 
How  sturdily  he  beats!  With  what  imperturbable 
dignity  he  marches  amid  that  scampering,  jostling, 
laughing,  shouting  mob  of  merry-hearted  children! 

"  After  all,"  I  observe,  "  struggle,  poverty  and  hard 
work  give  us  moments  of  joy  such  as  the  rich  never 
know.  I  want  to  put  it  on  record,  that  though  we 
arc  nearly  at  the  end  of  our  resources,  this  has  been 
one  of  the  happiest  days  of  my  life." 

"  I  weesh  you  let  me  go  to  work,  darleen.  I  make 
some  money  for  help.  I  sew  for  dressmaker  if  vou 
lit  me." 

"Never.     How  near  are  we  to  the  end?" 

"  I  have  enough  for  to-morrow  only." 

"  That's  bad."  I  didn't  say  any  more.  A  gloom 
foil  on  my  spirits. 

•'  A  letter  for  Monsieur,"  said  the  concierge,  as  with 


1!W 


THE  I'UKTENDER 


heavy  hearts  and  slow  steps  we  mounted  to  our  rooms. 

I  handed  it  to  Anastasia. 

"Open  it,  Little  Thing;  it's  in  your  department." 

She  did  so;  she  gave  a  little  scream  of  delight. 

"  Look !     It's  for  that  article  I  send  to  New  York 

Monitor.     He   geevc   you    cheque.     Let    me    see  .  .  . 

Oh,  mon  Dicu!  one  hundred  franc !  good,  good,  now  we 


arc  save ! " 


I  took  it  quickly. 

"One  hundred  francs  nothing,"  I  said.  "Young 
woman,  you've  got  to  get  next  to  our  monetary  system. 
That's  not  one  hundred  francs;  that's  one  hundred 
dollars  —  ^ve  hundred  francs.  Why,  what's  the  mat- 
ter?" 

For  Anastasia  had  promptly  fainted. 


(MASTER  IX: 
AN  IXKXPhXTKD  DEVELOPMENT 

I  AscRinKD  Anftst.isia\  fainting  spell  to  the  somewhat 
-ketch  V  lilt  {lis  we  had  been  having;  so  for  the  next 
ft  u  weeks  I  fed  her  up  anxiously.  That  same  evening 
«t  held  a  special  meeting  of  the  -ance  Committee  to 
consider  our  improved  position. 

••  Be  under  no  illusion,"  I  observed  as  Chairman, 
"  with  reference  to  our  recent  success.  It  is  not,  as 
you  might  imagine,  the  turn  of  the  tide.  There  are 
tliree  reasons  why  this  particular  article  was  accepted: 
First,  it  was  snappy  and  up-to-date;  second,  it  com- 
pared Manhattan  and  Modern  Babylon  in  a  way  fa- 
vourable to  the  former;  third,  and  chief  reason,  the 
editor  happened  to  have  some  very  good  cuts  that  he 
<()uld  work  in  to  make  an  attractive  spread.  Given 
these  inducements,  and  a  temporary  lack  of  more  ex- 
citing matter,  any  offering  can  dispense  with  such  a 
detail  as  literary  merit." 

Here  I  regarded  some  jottings  I  had  made  on  an  en- 
velope. 

"  I.vt  Us  now  sec  how  wc  stand.  We  started  w  ith 
twelve  manuscripts,  of  which  wc  have  sold  four. 
There  remain  five  more  articles,  and  three  fairy  stories. 
The  articles  I  regard  as  time  wasted.  People  won't  read 
-traight  descriptive  stuff;  even  in  novels  one  has  to 
-ncak  it  in." 

Hire  the  Secretary   regarded  ruefully  some  manu- 

>cripts  rather  the  worse  for  postal  transit. 

193 


h 


I 


19+ 


thp:  pretender 


"  Go  on  wasting  stamps  on  thcni  if  you  like,"  I  con- 
tinued;  "but,  candidly,  thoy'rc  tlu>  wrong  thing.  As 
for  the  fairy  stories,  wlicre  are  tliev  now?  " 

"  I  have  sent  them  to  the  Pichadcehi  Mngaziuc." 

"Tliey  miglit  have  some  chance  thtre.  The  editor 
devotes  a  certain  space  to  children  that  aren't  grown 
up.      Now  as  to  funds." 

The  Secretary  sat  down,  and  the  Treasurer  rose  in  her 
place.  She  stated  that  there  were  five  htuidred  frano 
in  the  treasury,  of  which  a  hundred  would  be  needed  to 
pay  the  rent  up  to  the  end  of  September.  Two  hun- 
dred francs  would  have  to  be  allowed  for  current  ex- 
penses; that  would  leave  a  hundred  for  contingencies. 

"Very  good,"  I  said;  "I  move  that  the  money 
be  expended  as  suggested.  And  now  —  two  blissful 
months  of  freedom  from  worry  in  which  to  re-write  niv 
novel.     Thank  Heaven!" 

With  that  I  plunged  into  my  work  as  strenuously 
as  before.  I  must  confess  I  re-read  it  with  a  tremor. 
It  was  bad,  but  —  not  too  bad.  Unconsciously  I  had 
reverted  to  my  yarn-spinning  style,  yet  often  in  the 
white  heat  of  inspiration  I  had  hit  on  the  master-word 
just  as  surely  as  if  I  had  pondered  half  a  day.  How- 
ever, the  result  as  a  whole  I  regarded  with  disfavour. 
The  work  was  lacking  in  distinction,  in  reserve,  in  the 
fine  art  of  understatement.  Instead  of  keeping  mv 
story  well  in  hand  I  had  let  it  gallop  away  with  me. 
Truly  I  was  incorrigible. 

"Anastasia,"  I  said  one  'la\.  as  I  was  about  half 
through  with  my  revision,  "you're  always  asking  if 
there's  no  way  you  can  help  me.     I  can  suggest  one  " 

"Oh,  good!     What  is  it?" 

"  Well,  I  know  where  I  can  hire  a  typewriter  for  a 


AX  UNEXPECTED  DEVELOPMENT     19o 


month  very  cheaply.  You  might  try  your  hand  at 
punching  out  this  wonderful  work  of  fiction  on  it." 

"  Oh,  that  please  me  very  much." 

"  All  right.     I'll  fetch  the  instrument  of  torture." 

It  was  a  very  old  machine,  of  eccentric  mechanism 
and  uncouth  appearance.  With  fumbling  hesitation 
she  began.  About  a  word  a  minute  was  her  average, 
and  that  word  a  mistake;  but  rapidly  she  progressed. 
Sometimes  I  would  hear  a  vigorous:  "  Nom  d'un 
Chien ! "  and  would  find  that  she  had  gone  over  the 
same  line  twice.  Then  again,  she  would  get  her  carbon 
paper  wrong,  and  the  duplicate  would  come  out  on  the 
back  of  the  original.  At  other  times  it  was  only  that 
sIh-  had  run  over  the  edge  of  the  paper. 

The  typewriter,  too,  was  somewhat  lethargic  in  ac- 
tion. It  seemed  to  say:  "I'm  so  old  in  service,  and 
my  joints  are  so  stiff — surely  I  might  be  allowed  to 
take  my  own  time.  If  you  try  to  hurry  me  I'll  get  my 
fingers  tangled,  or  I'll  jam  my  riband,  or  I'll  make 
all  kinds  of  mistakes.  Really,  it's  time  I  was  super- 
annuated." No  beginner,  even  in  a  Business  School, 
ever  tackled  a  more  decrepit  and  cantankerous  machine, 
and  it  said  much  for  her  patience  that  she  turned  out 
such  good  copy. 

So  passed  August  and  most  of  September  —  day 
after  day  of  grinding  work  in  sweltering  heat;  I,  prun- 
ing, piecing,  chopping,  changing;  she  pounding  pa- 
tiently at  that  malcontent  machine.  Then  at  last, 
after  a  long,  hard  day  it  was  done.  The  sunshine  was 
mellow  on  the  roofs  as  I  watched  her  write  the  closing 
words.  She  handed  the  page  to  me,  and,  regarding  the 
sunlight  almost  sorrowfully,  she  folded  her  tired  hand^. 

Two  tears  stole  down  her  pale  cheeks. 


196 


THE  PKLTENDER 


All  at  once  I  saw  how  worn  and  weary  slic  wa^. 
Thin,  gentle,  sad  —  more  than  ever  like  a  child  sin- 
looked,  with  her  exquisite  profile,  and  the  heaped-up 
masses  of  her  dark  hair;  more  than  over  like  a  child 
with  her  shrinking  figure  and  her  delicate  pallor:  yet 
she  would  soon  he  nineteen.  The  idea  came  to  me  that 
in  my  passion  of  creative  egotism  I  had  given  litth' 
thought  to  her. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Little  Thing?  Arc  vou 
sick?" 

She  looked  at  me  piteously. 

*'  Have  you  not  see?     Have  you  not  guess?  " 

'•  \o,  what?  "  I  demanded  in  a  tone  of  alarm. 

"  Pretty  soon  you  are  going  to  be  a  fazzcr." 

«  My  God  !  "  * 

I  could  only  gasp  and  stare  at  her. 

"  Well,  are  you  not  going  to  kees  me,  and  say  you 
are  not  sorry?  " 

"  Yes,  yes.  There,  Little  Thing  ...  1  —  I'm 
glad." 

IJut  there  was  no  conviction  in  my  tone,  and  I  sat 
gazing  into  vacancy.  In  my  intense  preoccupation 
never  had  such  a  thing  occurred  to  me.  It  came  as  a 
shock,  as  something  improper,  as  one  of  those  brutal 
realities  that  break  in  so  wofully  on  the  screnitiis  of 
life.  There  was  a  ridiculous  side  to  it,  too.  I  saw 
myself  sheepislily  wlucling  a  baby  carriage,  and  I  nml- 
lered  with  set  teeth:      "  Never!" 

"  Confound  it  all !  It's  so  embarrassing,"  I  thought 
distressfully.  "It  upsets  my  whole  programme.  It 
iiuikes  I'fe  luore  compltx,  and  I  am  tryiug  to  make  it 
ii:  :)e    siiiijile.     II    gives    me    new    responsibilities,    and 


A\  rNKXPFXTKO  DKVKLOPMKNT      197 

luy  every  effort  is  to  avoid  them.  Worst  of  ull,  it 
seems  to  sound  the  death-knell  of  my  youth.  To  ftfl 
like  ft  boy  has  always  been  my  ideal  of  well-being,  and 
how  can  one  feel  like  a  boy  with  a  rising  son  to  remind 
one  of  maturity?  " 

Perhaps,  however,  it  would  be  a  daughter.  Some- 
how that  didn't  seem  so  b;id.  So  to  change  the  subject 
I  suggested  that  we  take  a  walk  along  the  river.  As 
we  went  through  tlie  Tuileries  all  of  the  western  city 
seemed  to  wallow  in  flame.  The  sky  rolled  up  in 
tawny  orange,  and  the  twin  towers  of  the  Trocadero 
were  like  arms  raised  in  distress  amid  a  conflagration. 
The  river  was  a  welter  of  lilac  fire,  while  above  the 
portal  of  the  Grand  Palace  the  cliariot  driver  held  his 
rearing  horses  in  a  blaze  of  glory.  To  the  east  all 
was  light  and  enchantment,  as  a  thousand  windows 
burned  like  imperial  gems,  and  tower  and  spire  and 
dome  shimmered  in  a  delicate  dust  of  gold. 

"What  a  city,  this  Paris!"  I  murmured.  "Add 
hut  three  letters  to  it  and  you  have  Paradise." 

"  Where  you  are,  darleen,  to  me  it  is  always  Para- 
dise," said  Anastasia. 

In  the  tranquil  moods  of  matrimony,  how  is  it 
that  one  shrinks  so  from  sentiment?  On  the  Barbary 
("oasts  of  Love  we  excel  in  it.  In  books,  on  the  stage, 
we  revel  in  it ;  but  when  it  comes  to  the  hnllowcd 
humdrum  of  the  home  it  suits  us  better  to  be  curtly 
commonplace.  This  is  so  hard  for  the  Latin  races  to 
understand.  They  arc  so  emotional,  so  unconscious 
in  their  affection.  Doubtless  Anastasia  put  down  my 
reserve  to  coldness,  but  I  could  not  help  it. 

"  Look   here,   Little   Thing,"    I    said,  us    we    walked 


I 


198 


Tin:  pki:teni)er 


honif,  "  jou  mustn't  work  any  more.  Lot's  go  to  the 
country  for  a  week  or  two.  Let's  go  to  Fontaine- 
bleau." 

'*  How  we  get  money?  " 

"  We'll  use  that  extra  hundred  francs." 

"  Yes,  but  when  that  is  spend.*  " 

"  Oh,  don't  worry.  Something  will  turn  up.  Let's 
go." 

"  If  you  like  it.  I  shall  love  it,  the  rest,  the  good 
air.     Just  one  week." 

"  And  let's  take  the  Mome  with  us.  Frosine  will  let 
her  go.  It  will  be  such  a  treat  for  her.  Perhaps,  too, 
Ilelstern  will  spare  a  few  days  and  join  us." 

"  Ah,  it  will  all  be  so  nice." 

So  next  day  I  bundled  up  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry,  and 
under  the  name  of  Silenus  Starset,  I  sent  it  off  to  the 
publishers  of  my  other  novels. 

"I've  been  thinking,  Little  Thing,"  I  said,  "that 
when  we  come  buck  we'd  better  give  up  the  apartment 
and  take  a  room.  We  can  save  ovct  twenty  francs  a 
njonth  like  that.  It  won't  be  for  long.  When  the 
novel's  accepted,  there  will  be  an  end  of  our  troubles." 

"  Just  as  you  like  it.     I've  been  very  happy." 

Helstern  promised  to  meet  us  in  the  forest,  so  that 
afternoon  with  the  Mome  and  a  hundred  francs  we  took 
the  train  to  Barbizon.  If  we  had  not  both  been  avid 
for  it,  that  holiday  would  have  been  worth  while  only 
to  see  the  rapture  of  the  Mome.  It  was  her  first 
sight  of  the  real  country,  and  she  was  delirious  with 
delight.  Anastasia  had  a  busy  time  answering  her 
questions,  trying  to  check  her  excitement,  gently  re- 
straining her  jerking  arms  and  legs.     Her  eyes  shone. 


AN   INKXPFXTKD  DEVKLOPMKNT     199 


Ik  V  tongue  i-ftttk-d,  litr  luad  pivoted  eagerly,  and  many 
Mh  tilt   tiuiii  WHtelied  lier  with  ainuseiiient. 

A^  we  lulled  through  the  country  of  Millet,  the 
u.  ^tiring  sun  slanted  across  the  level  fields,  catching 
tilt  rdges  of  the  furrows,  and  luundiing  long  shadows 
adONs  the  orcliards.  We  took  rooms  in  a  cottage  in 
Uirhi/on.  From  the  sun-haked  street  a  step,  and  we 
u.ic  in  the  thick  of  the  forest,  drowned  in  leafy  twi- 
lii;lit  and  pine-scented  solitude.  And  with  every  turn, 
iiiidir  thiit  canopy  of  laughing  leaves,  the  way  grew 
uildtr  and  more  luring.  The  molten  sunshine  <lripped 
thiDugh  hranches,  flooding  with  gold  the  ferny  hollows, 
(l.ippiiiig  with  amher  the  russet  pathway.  Down, 
tlir()ii<4h  the  cool  green  aisles  it  led  in  twilights  of  trans- 
luit  nt  green,  mid  pillering  oak  and  yielding  carpets  of 
fiiK-powdered  cones.  And  ever  the  rocks  grew  more 
^i()tes(jue,  taking  the  shapes  of  griffins  and  primordial 
li.  a"-ts,  all  mottled  with  that  splendid  moss  of  crimson, 
nil  in,  and  gold.  Then  it  grew  on  one  that  wood  nymphs 
u(  re  ahout,  that  fawns  were  peeping  from  the  lightning- 
-pliiitered  oaks,  and  that  the  spell  of  the  forest  was 
I'lilding  one  around. 

On  the  second  day  Helstern  joined  us.  He  was 
gloomily  enthusiastic,  pointing  out  to  me  beauties  of 
t'linn  and  colour  I  would  have  idly  passed.  He  made 
iiu-  really  feel  ashamed  of  my  crassness.  What  a  gifted, 
.uiite  chap!     But,  oh,  how  atrabilious! 

••  For  Heaven's  sake,  old  man,"  I  said  one  day,  "  don't 
lir  so  pessimistic." 

"  How  can  a  man  be  other  than  pessimistic,"  he  an- 
swi  red,  "  with  a  foot  like  mine.  Just  think  what  it 
means.     Look  here." 


200 


Tin:  PHKTFA'DKU 


Rolling  lip  liis  sitt've  he  sliowcd  tnc  nn  arm  n  sculptor 
might  liHve  ravi'd  ovt-r. 

"  If  I'd  httn  ull  right,  what  an  Hthletr'  IM  have  iruule. 
Look  at  my  torso,  my  other  leg.  And  n)y  whole  heart 
is  for  notion,  for  energy,  for  dee<ls.  Just  think  how 
much  that  makes  life  worth  while  is  barred  to  inc. 
And  I  shrink  fron»  society,  especially  where  there  are 
women.  I'm  always  thinking  they  pity  me.  Oh,  that  s 
gall  and  wormwood  —  to  be  pitied!  I  should  have  a 
wife,  cliildren,  a  home,  yet  here  I  am  .i  lonely,  brooding 
misanthrope;  and  I'm  only  forty-six." 

Yet  he  cheered  up  when  the  Mome  was  near.  The 
two  were  the  greatest  of  friends  now,  and  it  was  a 
notable  sight  to  s.e  the  i)ig  man  with  his  Forbes  Robert- 
son type  of  face  and  his  iron-grey  mane,  leading  bv 
the  hand  the  little  girl  of  five  with  the  slender  limbs, 
the  pansy-blue  eyes,  and  the  honey-yellow  hair. 

And  what  exciting  tales  the  Mome  would  have  to  tell 
on  her  return:  how  they  had  surprised  a  deer  nibbling 
at  the  short  grass;  how  a  wild  boar  with  tushes  gleaming 
had  glared  at  them  out  of  the  brake;  how  an  eagle  had 
arisen  from  a  lonely  gorge!  Then  there  were  lizards 
crawling  on  the  silver-grey  rocks,  and  the  ceaseless 
calling  of  cuckoos,  and  scolding  squirrels,  and  drumming 
woodpeckers.  Oh,  that  was  the  happy  child!  V«7 
sometimes  I  wondered  if  the  man  was  not  as  happy  in 
his  own  way. 

He  was  a  queer  chap,  was  Helstern.  I  remember  one 
time  we  all  sat  together  on  a  fallen  log,  and  the  sky 
seen  through  the  black  bars  of  the  pines  was  like  a  fire 
of  glowing  coals,  Long,  serene  and  mellow  the  evening 
lengthened  to  a  close. 

"  You  know,"  said  the  sculptor,  as  he  pulLd  steadily 


AX  rNEXPlXTKD  DE^EL{)P^IK^T     inn 


at  *ho  Turk's  lioad  pipe,  and  regarded  the  Mume 
llidughtfullv,  "  I  b«lu'Vf  that  all  children  should  Ih» 
itand  and  (ducated  by  the  State.  Then  there  wouhl 
he  no  unfair  liundicapping  of  the  poor:  each  child  Mould 
find  its  proper  place  in  the  world." 

'•  Wluit  would  you  do  with  the  home?  " 

••  I  would  surely  tiestroy  the  millions  of  un- 
wdi-thy  homes,  stupid  homes,  needy  homes,  bigoted 
homes,  sordid  homes.  I  would  replace  these  with  a 
;^rcat  glorious  Home,  run  by  a  beneficent  State,  where 
I'rom  the  very  cradle  children  would  bo  developed 
and  traineil  on  scientific  principles,  where  they  would 
he  taught  that  the  noblest  effort  of  man  is  the  service 
nf  man;  the  most  ignoble,  the  seeking  of  money.  I 
would  teach  them  to  live  for  the  spiritual,  not  the 
Mii>.ua!  benefits  of  life.  Many  private  homes  do  not 
teach  these  things.  Their  influence  is  pernicious. 
How  many  men  can  look  back  on  such  homes  and  not 
declare  them  bungling  makeshifts,  either  stupidly  nar- 
row, oi'  actually  unhappy?" 

•'  You  would  destroy  the  love  tics  of  parent  and 
child?" 

"  \ot  at  all.  I  would  strengthen  them.  As  it  is, 
how  many  children  are  educated  away  from  their 
liomes,  in  nnvents,  hoarding-schools,  Li/ceen?  Do 
they  love  their  parents  any  the  less?  No;  the  more, 
for  they  do  not  see  so  much  that  is  wvak  and  con- 
temptible in  them.  But  if  mothers  wish,  let  them  enter 
the  State  nurseries  and  nurse  their  own  little  ones  — 
not  according  to  our  bungling,  ignorant  methods,  but 
according  to  the  methods  of  science.  Then  the  young- 
sters would  not  be  exposed  to  ti.c  anxieties  that  darken 
the  average  home;  they   would  not  pick  up  and  per- 


yos 


Tin:  ]'hi:ti:\i)i:r 


petuatf  tilt*  vulguritics  of  tlitir  paivnts.  The  cliild  of 
the  puuptr  would  be  just  as  refined  as  the  child  of 
the  peer.  Think  what  that  would  mean;  a  breaking 
down  of  all  class  distinction.  The  word  'gentleman' 
would  come  into  its  true  significance,  and  in  a  few 
years  we  would  have  a  new  race,  with  new  ideals,  new- 
ambitions,  new  ways  of  thought." 

"You  would  educate  them,  too?" 

"  They  would  have  all  the  education  they  wanted,  but 
not  in  the  present  wav.  Thev  would  l)e  tauiiht  to 
examine,  to  reason:  not  to  accept  blindly  the  beliefs  of 
their  fathers;  to  sift,  to  analyse:  not  to  let  themselves 
be  cranuned  with  ready-madf  ideas.  I  would  not  try 
to  turn  them  all  out  in  one  mould,  as  the  pe(lag()<rues 
do;  I  would  try  to  develop  their  ()ri«^inality.  Ques- 
tion and  challenge  would  be  their  attitude.  I  would 
establish  *  ("hairs  of  Imjuiry.'  I  would  teach  them 
that  the  circle  is  not  round,  and  that  two  and  two  do 
not  make  four.  Up  the  great  stairway  of  Truth  would 
I  lead  them,  so  that  standing  on  its  highest  point  they 
nu'ght  hew  still  higher  steps  in  the  rock  of  knowledge." 

"  And  how  would  you  pay  for  this  national  nursery 
nonsense.''" 

"  By  making  money  uninheritable.  I  believe  the 
hope  of  the  future,  the  triumph  of  democracy,  the  very 
salvation  of  the  race  lies  in  the  State  education  of  the 
children.  The  greatest  enemies  of  the  young  are  the 
old.  Instead  of  the  child  honouring  the  parents,  the 
parents  should  honour  the  child;  for  if  there's  anv  vir- 
tue in  evolution  the  son  ought  to  be  an  improvement  on 
the  father." 

In  the  growing  darkness  I  could  see  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe  glow  and  fade.     I  was  not  paying  nuich  attention 


AN  r\i:XPK(  TKD  DEVELOPMENT     203 


ti>  what  he  was  saying,  but  there  in  tliat  scented  pine- 
gloom  it  was  a  pleasure  to  listen  to  that  rich,  vibrating 
voice. 

"  I  want  to  be  fair,  I  want  to  be  just,  I  want  to  sec 
(Very  nian  do  his  share  of  the  world's  work.  Let  him 
larn  as  much  money  as  he  likes,  but  at  his  death  let  it 
rivert  to  the  State  for  the  general  education  of  the  race, 
not  to  pamper  and  spoil  his  own  particular  progeny. 
Lit  the  girls  be  taught  the  glory  of  motherhood,  and  the 
imn  military  duty;  then,  fully  equipped  for  the  strug- 
glf,  let  all  go  forth.  How  simple  it  is!  How  sane! 
Vet  we're  blind,  so  blind." 

"  Solonge  is  sleeping  in  my  arms,"  said  Anastasia. 
"•  I  sink  it  is  time  we  must  go  home." 


niAI'TEK  X 
THE  I.IIT,  AND  DEATH  OF  DOROTHY  MADDF.X 

Tick  time  was  drawing  near  when  I  would  become  n 
futlier.  Yit  us  the  hour  of  my  trial  approached  I 
nalised  that  I  was  <rhid,  glad.  I  hoped  it  would  bo  a 
girl ;  nay,  I  was  sure  it  would  bo  a  girl ;  a  little,  dark, 
old-fasliioned  girl,  whose  hand  I  would  hold  on  my 
rambles,  and  whose  innocent  mind  I  would  watch  un- 
folding like  a  flowir.  And  I  would  call  her  .  .  .  yes, 
I  would  call  her  Dorothy. 

Dorotliy!  How  >wiet  the  name  sounded!  But  no 
sweeter  than  my  little  daughter  —  of  that  I  was  sure. 
I  could  feel  lu  r  hand,  small  as  a  rose  leaf,  nestling  in 
mine;  see  lier  innocent,  tarn-brown  eyes  gazing  upward 
into  my  face.  Tlien  as  she  ran  and  eagerly  plucked  a 
vagrant  blossom  I  would  weave  about  it  some  charming 
legend.  I  would  people  the  glade  with  fairies  for  her, 
and  the  rocks  with  gnomes.  In  her  I  would  live  over 
again  my  own  w.)nderful  childhood.  She,  too,  would  bo 
a  dreamer,  sharing  that  wonderful  kingdom  of  mine, 
understanding  me  as  no  other  had  ever  done. 

Then  when  she  grew  up,  what  a  wonderful  woman 
she  would  bo!  How  proud  she  would  be  of  me !  How, 
in  old  age,  when  my  hair  grew  white,  and  my  footsteps 
faltered,  she  would  take  my  arm,  and  together  we  would 
walk  round  the  old  garden  in  the  hush  of  eventide. 

"  Wonderful  destiny !  "  I  cried,  inspired  by  the  senti- 
mental pictures  unfolding  themselves  before  me.  "  I 
can  s(<(.  myself  older  yet.  an  octogenarian.     My  back  is 

Mi 


DOROTHY  MADDEN 


aoo 


li(nt.  my  liair  is  snowy  white.  I  have  a  vcnerahle 
Itiard,  and  kindly  eyes  that  shine  through  gold-rinniied 
«|)(  c-tacles.  A  tartan  shawl  is  round  my  shoulders,  and 
my  hands,  as  they  rest  on  my  silver-lieadcd  cane,  are 
;,'l;izrd  and  crinkly.  But,  crowning  glory !  Greater 
tlian  that  array  of  children  of  my  •  ..nd  for  which  n.on 
<^\w  me  honour,  are  the  children  of  my  flesh  who  play 
.uoiind  my  knee,  my  grandchildren.  There  will  be 
siicli  a  niirry  swarm  of  them,  and  in  their  joyous  laugh- 
Ur  I  will  grow  young  again.  Oh,  blessed  destiny!  To 
lie  a  father  is  much;  but  to  be  a  grandfather  so  infinitely 
iKibltr  —  and  less  trouble.'' 

The  more  I  thought  o\er  it,  the  more  I  became  im- 
pressed, yiy  imminent  ]'aternity  became  almost  an 
()l)>tssion  with  me.  My  narriage  had  surprised  nie. 
\o  time  had  I  to  embroidt-r  it  with  the  flowers  of  fancy, 
liiit  this  was  different.  So  engrossed  did  I  become  with 
,1  xnse  of  my  own  importance  that  you  would  have 
tl:ought  no  one  had  ever  become  a  father  before.  In 
my  enthusiasm  I  told  T^orrimer  of  my  interesting  condi- 
tion, but  the  faun-like  young  man  rather  damped  my 
ardour. 

**  Marriage,"  he  observe<l,  in  his  usual  cynical  man- 
ner, ••  is  a  lottery,  in  which  the  prizes  are  white  ele- 
|)liaiits.  But  Fatherhood,  that's  the  sorriest  of  gambles. 
True,  as  you  suggest,  ^-our  daughter  may  marry  the 
Proident  of  the  I'liited  States,  but  on  the  other  hand 
^lie  may  turn  out  to  be  another  Brinvilliers.  She  may 
I'e  a  Madame  de  Stael  and  she  may  be  a  Pompadour. 
Then  again,  you  may  have  a  family  of  a  dozen." 

"  But  I  won't,"  I  protested  indignantly. 

"Well,  just   suppose.      You  mav   have  a   dozen   or- 
dinary respectable  tax-payers  and  one  rotter.     Don't 


iHH) 


THE  PHKTKNDEK 


you  think  tlic  black  sheep  will  discomit  all  your  success- 
ful efforts?  Really,  old  man,  you're  taking  an  awful 
chance.  Then  after  all  it's  an  ungrateful  business. 
The  girls  get  married  and  enter  the  families  of  their 
husbands;  the  boys  either  settle  far  away,  or  get  wives 
you  don't  approve  of.  Anyway,  you  lose  them.  At 
the  worst  you  beget  a  criminal,  at  the  best  an  ingratc. 
It's  a  poor  business.  However,  cheer  up,  old  man: 
we'll  hopt'  for  tlie  best." 

Helstern,  on  the  other  hand,  took  a  diflVrent  view  of 
it.     The  sculptor  was  sombrely  enthusiastic. 

"  You  must  let  me  do  a  group  of  it,  Madden,  I'll 
call  it  the  First-bom.  I'm  sure  I  could  take  a  gold 
medal  with  it.'' 

He  led  me  to  a  cafe  and  in  his  tragic  tones  ordered 
beer  in  which  we  drank  to  the  health  of  the  First-born. 
"  Just  think  of  it,"  he  rolled  magnificently,  his  vision- 
ary instincts  aroused;  "just  think  of  that  little  human 
soul  waiting  to  be  born,  and  it's  you  that  give  it  the 
chance  to  enter  this  world.  Oh,  happy  man!  Just 
think  of  all  the  others,  the  countless  hosts  of  the  unborn 
waiting  tlieir  turn.  Why,  it's  an  inspiring  sight,  these 
wistful  legions,  countless  as  the  sands  of  the  sea.  And 
it's  for  us  to  welcome  them,  to  be  the  means  of  opening 
the  door  to  as  many  as  possible,  to  give  them  beautiful 
botlies  to  enter  into,  and  to  make  the  world  more  pleas- 
ant for  them  to  dwell  in.  Now,  there's  a  glorious  am- 
bition for  us  all.  Let  parenthood  be  the  crowning 
honour  of  life.  Let  it  be  the  duty  of  the  race  to  so 
improve  conditions  that  there  will  be  the  right  kind  of 
welcome  waiting  for  them  —  that  they  will  be  fit  and 
worthy  in  body  and  soul  to  live  the  life  that  is  await- 
ing them.*' 


DOROTHY  MADDEN 


201 


]lo  drank  deeply  from  his  big  stein,  and  wiped  some 
fd.ini  from  his  lips. 

''Win',  it's  more  than  an  ambition:  it's  a  religion. 
The  Japanese  worship  the  Dead;  let  us  worship  the 
T'nborn,  the  great  races  who  are  to  come,  the  people 
nc  are  going  to  htlp  to  make  great.  For  on  us  it  all 
(It })( lids,  on  us  to-day.  Every  action  of  ours  is  like  a 
pebble  thrown  in  a  still  sea,  the  waves  of  which  go 
rippling  down  eternity.  Yes,  let  us  realise  our  re- 
sponsibility to  the  Unborn,  and  govern  our  lives  accord- 
ingly in  grace  and  goodliness.  There!  that  goes  to 
fi:e  very  heart  of  all  morality  —  to  live  our  best,  not 
because  we  are  expecting  to  be  rewarded,  but  because 
wt  are  making  for  generations  to  come  better  bodi^^s. 
In  ttir  homes,  better  lives.  And  they  in  their  turn  will 
realise  their  duty  to  the  others  that  are  crowding  on, 
and  nink      '  "  world  still  worthier  for  their  occupation." 

He  fill  s  Turk's  head  pipe  thoughtfully. 

*'  I  want  to  go  further,"  he  went  on,  "  but  the  rest 
is  more  fanciful.  I  believe  that  the  armies  of  the  Un- 
born know  that  it  all  depends  on  us  here  to-day  what 
kind  of  deal  they  arc  going  to  get,  and  in  their  vast, 
blind  way  they  are  trying  to  influence  us.  I  like  to 
think  that  that  is  the  great  impulse  towards  good  we 
all  feel,  the  power  that  in  spite  of  selfishness,  is  gradu- 
ally lifting  us  onward  and  upward.  It  is  the  multitude 
to  come,  trying  in  their  blind,  pitiful  way  to  influence 
us,  to  make  us  better.  There  they  wait,  the  soldiers  of 
the  future,  ready  to  take  up  the  great  fight,  to  carry 
the  banner  of  freedom,  happiness,  and  mutual  love  to 
the  golden  goal  of  universal  brotherhood.  Truly  I  wor- 
ship the  Unborn." 

He  lit  his  pipe  solemnly. 


'^08 


Tin:  PHKTKNDEU 


••  Then,  k't  iiie  fongralulHtt-  vou,  Madden.  You  are 
ii  \irv  lucky  num.'" 

Much  cluLTi'd  I  tlumked  him  and,  absorbed  in  niv 
divanis  of  paternity,  continued  to  tramp  the  streets. 
All  the  time  I  was  seeing  Ihat  slim  little  girl  of  mine, 
with  her  long  dark  hair,  her  ha/el  eyes,  her  quaint, 
old-fashioned  ways.  And  as  the  day  drew  near  she 
grew  u\ore  and  more  real  to  me.  I  could  feel  her 
caressing  arms  around  my  neck,  and  her  rosebud  mouth 
pressed  to  mine.  Truly  she  was  the  most  adorable 
child  that  ever  lived. 

One  {)iece  of  luck  we  had  at  this  period:  The  fairy 
stories  were  accepted  by  the  Piccadilly  Maya~.ini'  and 
we  got  ten  pounds  for  them,  thus  saving  the  situation 
once  again. 

When  the  time  came  tiiat  we  should  obtain  a  new 
lodging  I  had  taken  a  room  in  the  rue  D'Assas,  but  I 
was  ijnmediately  sorr}',  for  I  discovered  that  it  over- 
looked the  Maternity  Hospital  Tarnier.  The  very  first 
morning  I  saw  a  young  woman  coining  out  with  a  new 
baby.  She  was  a  mere  girl,  hatless  and  all  alone,  and 
she  cried  very  bitterly. 

Then  that  night,  as  I  was  preparing  to  ascend  the 
stairs,  I  heard  terrible  shrieks  coming  from  the  great, 
gloomy  building  as  if  some  woman  within  were  being 
])ainfully  murdered.  For  a  moment  I  paused,  stricken 
witli  horror.  There  was  a  cab  drawn  up  close  by,  .'ind 
the  cochcr  was  pacing  beside  it.  He  was  the  typical 
Parisian  cab-driver,  corpulent  and  rubicund,  the  product 
of  open  air,  no  brain  worry,  and  generous  living.  He 
indicated  the  direction  of  the  appalling  cries:  "The 
world's  not  coming  to  an  end  just  yet,"  he  observed 
with  a  great  rosy  grin. 


DOROTHY  MADDEN 


209 


i 


\or  was  the  view  from  our  window  conducive  of  more 
cl'.fcrful  thoughts.  I  could  look  right  down  into  one 
of  the  wftrds,  a  great,  barn-like  place,  mathematically 
monotonous,  painfully  clean.  There  were  the  white 
rnami'llod  beds,  each  with  its  face  of  pain  on  the  pil- 
low, its  tumbled  bedding,  agony-twisted  or  still  in 
up.iMiy.  Then  in  the  night  I  suddenly  started,  for  once 
again  I  heard  those  awful  sounds.  They  began  as  lorg, 
lijilf-stifled  moans  .  .  .  then  screams,  each  piercing, 
sliarp-idgcd  with  agony,  holding  a  strange  note  of  ter- 
ror .  .  .  then  shriek  upon  shriek  till  the  ultimate  ex- 
pression of  human  agony  seemed  to  be  reached  .  .  . 
then  sudden  silence. 

At  least  twice  during  the  night  this  would  happen, 
and  often  in  the  morning  there  would  be  a  dismal  little 
funeral  cortege  standing  outside  the  gates ;  a  man  dab- 
bing red  eyes  with  a  handkerchief  would  herd  some 
bhibl)ering  children  into  a  carriage,  and  drive  after  a 
liearse  in  which  lay  a  coffin.  It  was  all  very  melan- 
elioly,  and  preyed  on  my  spirits.  I  wondered  how  peo- 
ple could  live  here  always;  but  no  doubt  they  got 
hardened.  Xo  doubt  this  was  why  we  got  our  room  so 
elieaply. 

Then  at  last  the  day  came  when  Little  Thing  held  me 
wry  tigjitly,  gave  me  a  long,  hard  kiss  and  left  me,  to 
|)ass  through  that  portal  of  pain.  Back  I  went  to  the 
room  again.  How  empty  it  seemed  now!  I  was 
miserable  beyond  all  words.  I  had  dinner  at  the  Lilas, 
and  for  two  hours  sat  moodily  brooding  over  my  coffee. 
What  amazed  me  was  that  other  men  could  go  through 
Hiis  trial  time  after  time  and  take  it  with  such  calmness. 
The  long-haired  ports,  the  garcons  with  their  tight, 
nhite  aprons  —  were  they   fathers  too.'     A  girl  came 


mo 


Tin:  pki:ti:m)Er 


and  sat  by  nic,  a  girl  with  high  cheok-boncs,  simkc-likc 
eyes,  and  a  mouth  like  a  red  scar.  I  rose  with  dignity, 
sought  my  room  and  my  bed. 

There  I  fell  into  a  troubled  doze  in  which  I  dreamet* 
of  Dorothy.  Slu'  had  grown  up  and  had  made  her 
di'but  as  an  operatic  star  with  overwhelming  success. 
How  proud  I  was  of  her!  Thin  suddenly  as  I  gazed, 
she  changed  to  the  young  woman  of  the  cafe,  who  had 
looked  at  me  so  meaningly.  I  awoke  with  a  crushing 
sense  of  distress. 

Ilark!  Was  that  a  scream.*  It  seemed  to  cleave 
my  very  heart.  But  then  it  might  be  some  one  else. 
There  was  no  distinguishing  quality  in  these  screams. 
Trull  or  princess  they  were  all  alike,  just  plain  mothers 
cr^'ing  in  their  agony.  N'o,  I  could  not  tell  .  .  .  but  it 
was  too  terrible.  I  dressed  hurriedly  and  went  out  into 
the  streets. 

At  three  in  the  morning  Paris  is  a  i-itv  of  weird  fas- 
cination. It  turns  to  us  a  new  side,  sinister,  dark, 
mysterious.  Even  as  the  rats  gather  in  its  glitters,  so 
do  the  human  rats  take  possession  of  its  pavements. 
Every  one  you  meet  seems  on  evil  bent,  and  in  the  dim 
half-light  you  speculate  on  their  pursuits.  Here  come 
two  sauntering  demireps  with  complexions  of  vivid 
certainty;  there  a  rake-hell  reels  homeward  from  the 
night  dens  of  Montmartre:  now  it  is  a  wretched  gatlierer 
of  cigarette  stubs,  peering  hawk-eyed  as  he  shambles 
along;  then  two  dark,  sallow  youths,  witli  narrow  faces, 
glinting  eyes,  and  unlit  cigarettes  in  their  cynical 
mouths  —  the  sinister  Apache. 

Coming  up  the  Roul'  Mich'  were  a  stream  of  tumbrels 
from  the  Halles,  and  following  their  trail  I  came  on  a 
.scene  bewildering  in  its  movement  and  clamour.     The 


DOROTHY  MADDEN 


an 


carts  tliat  had  been  arriving  since  the  previous  night 
liud  gorged  the  ten  pavilions  that  form  the  great  Paris 
M.irket  till  they  overflowed  far  into  the  outlying  streets. 
The  pavements  were  blocked  with  heaps  of  cabbages 
and  cauliflowers,  carrots  and  turnips,  celery  and  as- 
paragus, while  a  dozen  different  kinds  of  salad  gleamed 
iiiuler  the  arc  lights  with  a  strange  unnatural  viridity. 
In  other  parts  of  the  market  crates  of  chickens  and  rab- 
l»its  were  being  dumped  on  the  pavements;  fresh  fish 
from  the  coast  were  being  unloaded  in  dripping,  salty 
boxes;  and  a  regiment  of  butchers  in  white  smocks 
were  staggering  under  enough  sides  of  beef  to  feed  an 
army. 

What  an  orgy  of  colour  it  was  I  You  might  pass 
from  the  corals  and  ivorys  of  the  vegetable  market  to 
tlie  fierce  crimsons  of  the  meat  pavilion;  from  the  silver 
greys  of  the  section  devoted  to  fish,  to  the  golden  yel- 
lows of  the  hall  dedicated  to  butter,  and  cheese.  There 
M «re  a  do/en  shades  of  green  alone  —  from  the  light, 
glossy  green  of  the  lettuce  to  the  dull  green  of  the 
cress;  a  dozen  shades  of  red  —  from  the  pale  pink  of 
the  radish  to  the  diirk  crimson  of  the  beet. 

Tiirough  this  tunudt  of  confusion  I  pushed  my  way. 
Hurrying  ])orters  in  red  night-caps,  witli  great  racks  of 
">i<  r  stra{)pe(l  on  their  backs,  rushed  to  and  fro,  pant- 
ing, and  dripping  with  sweat.  Strapping  red-faced 
women  with  the  manner  of  men  ordered  them  about.  A 
self-reliant  race,  these  women  of  the  Halles,  accustomed 
to  hold  their  own  in  the  fierce  struggle  of  competition, 
to  eat  and  drink  enormously,  to  be  exposed  to  the 
weather  in  all  seasons.  Their  voices  are  raucous,  their 
eyes  sharp,  their  substantial  frames  swathed  in  many 
layers  of  clothes.     Their   world   is   the   market;  thej 


iilU 


Tin:  IMIKTENDEK 


wcro   born    in    its    atmosphere,   they   will   die   with    its 
clamour  in  their  cars. 

Aiul  from  the  surrounding  slums  what  a  sea  of  misery 
sccmtd  to  wash  up  I  At  this  time  you  may  see  human 
flotsam  that  is  clstwhen  invisible.  In  the  bustling  con- 
fusion of  the  dawn  the  human  rats  slink  out  of  their 
holes  to  gain  a  few  sous ;  not  much  —  just  four  sous  for 
st)up  and  bread,  four  sous  for  a  corner  in  the  dosshouse, 
and  a  few  sous  for  cognac.  Here  flourish  all  the  metiers 
of  mi.''.T3'.  I  saw  five  old  women  whose  combined  ages 
must  have  made  up  four  hundred  years,  huddled  to- 
gether for  warmth,  and  all  sunk  in  twitching,  shudder- 
ing sleep.  I  saw  outcast  men  with  livid  faces  and  rat- 
I'hewcd  beards,  whose  clothes  rotted  on  their  rickety 
frames,  I  saw  others  dazed  from  a  debauch,  goggle- 
eyed,  blue-lipped  pictures  of  wretchedness.  And  the 
drinking  dens  in  the  narrow  streets  vomited  forth  more 
wanton  women,  and  malevolent  men,  till  it  seemed  to  me 
that  never  does  misery  seem  so  pitiable,  never  vice  so 
repulsive,  as  when  it  swirls  round  those  teeming  pa- 
vilions at  four  o'clock  of  a  raw,  rainy  morning. 

Suddenly  I  stopped  to  look  at  a  female  of  unusual 
height  and  robust  rotundity.  A  woman  merchant  of 
the  markets,  seemingly  of  substance  no  less  than  of 
flesh.  Her  voice  was  deep  and  hoarse,  her  eyes  hard 
and  grim,  and  tlie  firmness  of  her  mouth  was  accentu- 
jitrd  by  a  deliberate  moustaclie.  A  masculine  woman. 
A  truculent,  overbearing  woman.  A  very  virago  of  a 
woman.  Her  complexion  was  of  such  a  hard  redness, 
her  Roman  nose  so  belligerent.  On  her  bosom,  which 
outstood  like  the  seat  of  a  fauteuil,  reposed  a  heavy 
gold  cliain  and  lorkrl.  On  her  great,  red  wrists  were 
bracelets  of  gold;  and  on  her  hands,  which  looked  as  if 


DOROTHY  MADDKN 


?1{J 


tiny  could  deliver  a  skdgt-hainmer  blow,  sparklcil  ii:uiiv 
lings.  Beside  this  magnificent  tennagant  her  perspir- 
ing porters  looked  pusillanimous.  "  Here,"  thought  I, 
"  is  the  very  Queen  of  the  Halles." 

She  was  enthroned  amid  a  pile  of  wicker  crates  con- 
i. lining  large  grey  shells.  As  I  looked  closer  I  saw 
that  the  grey  shells  contained  grey  snails,  and  that 
those  on  the  top  of  the  heap  were  peering  forth  and 
shooting  out  tentative  grey  horns.  Some  of  them  were 
t  vtn  crawling  up  the  basket  work.  Then  as  I  watclud 
tliinj  curiously  a  label  on  the  crate  caught  my  eyr  ami 
I  read : 

Madame  Sekaphixe  ClrixoVAL 

Marchandc  d'  Escargots 

Les  Halles,  Paris. 

"Guinoval,"  I  thought:  "that's  odd.  Surely  I've 
htard  that  name  before.  Why,  it's  the  maiden  name  of 
Anastasia.  The  name  of  this  enormous  woman,  then, 
is  (luinoval.  Sudden  idea!  Might  it  not  be  that  there 
is  some  relationship  between  them?  "  But  the  contrast 
hit  ween  my  slight,  shrinking  Anastasia  with  her  child- 
like face  and  this  dragoon  of  a  woman  was  so  great  that 
I  dismissed  the  idea  as  absurd. 

I  was  very  tired  when  I  reached  home.  I  liad  been 
afoot  four  hours,  and  dropping  on  my  bed  I  fell  asleep. 
About  eleven  o'clock  I  awoke  with  a  vague  sense  of  fear. 
Something  had  happened,  I  felt.  Hurrying  down,  I 
iiitercd  the  hospital. 

"Yes,"  they  told  me;  "my  wife  had  been  confined 
during  the  night.     She  was  very  weak,  but  doing  well." 

"  And  the  child,"  I  asked,  trying  to  conceal  my 
lagtrness.     "  Was  it  a  boy  or  a  girl.'  " 


«lf 


THE  PUKTENDFR 


"Tlio  child,  Monsieur,  wns  a  girl"  (how  my  heart 
N'rtpt);  "but  unfortunnttly  it  —  had  not  lived." 

'*  Dead !  "  I  stammered ;  then  after  a  stunned  mo- 
ment : 

"  Can  I  see  her?     Can  I  see  my  child?  " 

So  they  took  me  to  something  that  lay  swathed  in 
linen.  I  started  with  a  curious  emotion  of  pain.  That ! 
so  grotesque,  so  pitiful, —  that,  the  gracious  girl  who 
WHS  going  to  he  so  much  to  me,  the  sweet  companion 
who  was  going  to  understand  me  as  no  one  else  could, 
the  precious  comfort  of  my  declining  years!  Oh,  the 
bitter  mockery  of  it ! 

And  so  next  day,  alone  in  a  single  cab  I  took  to  the 
cemetery  all  that  was  mortal  of  Dorothy  Madden. 


KND   OK    HOOK    II 


part 


mo- 


i  in 
hat! 
who 
nion 
>u1d, 
the 

I  the 


HOOK  III  — THE  AWAKKMNG 

CH AFTER  I 

THI-.  STUKSS  OK  THK  STRIT.GI.E 

**  Look  here,  Miiddon,  you  really  ouglit  to  try  and 
shake  off  your  nulaneholy,'*  said  Helstern,  as  we  snt  in 
front  of  the  Cafe  Soufflet. 

"  To  hear  vou  call  lue  nielancholv,"  I  retorted,  "  is 
like  hearing  the  pot  call  the  kettle  black.  And  any- 
way you've  nerer  lost  an  only  child." 

"  I  believe  you're  a  little  mad,"  said  the  sculptor, 
observing  nie  closely. 

"Are  we  not  all  of  us  just  a  little  mad?  Would 
you  have  us  entirely  sane?  What  a  humdrum  world 
that  wouhl  be  I  I  hate  people  who  are  so  egregiously 
sane." 

"  Hut  you're  letting  this  idea  of  yours  altogether 
obsj^ss  you.  You've  created  an  imaginary  child,  just 
as  you  might  have  created  one  in  fiction,  only  ten  times 
more  vividly.  Then  when  the  earthly  frame  into  which 
it  was  to  pass  proves  too  frail  to  hold  it  you  refuse  to 
lit  it  die.  You  keep  on  thinking:  '  My  daughter!  my 
ciaught 


er: 


I » 


And  spiritually  you  reach  out  to  a  being 
that  only  exists  in  your  imagination." 

*'  She  doesn't,  Helstern ;  that's  where  you're  wrong. 
I  thought  so  at  first,  but  now  I  know.  She  really  ex- 
ists, exists  in  that  wonderful  world  we  can  only  dimly 

conjecture.     She  sought  for  admission  to  this  our  world 

215 


21fi 


THE  PRETENDER 


and  it  was  denied  her;  but  she  lives  in  the  spirit.  She 
will  grow  up  in  the  spirit ;  and,  even  as  if  bhe  were  a 
child  of  the  flebh,  I  who  loved  her  so  well  have  her 
always." 

"  Rubbisli !  Look  here,  I  see  what's  the  matter  with 
you.  You've  got  the  fietionists'  imagination.  This  is 
only  a  creature  of  your  brain.  Kill  it,  as  Dickens  killed 
little  Donibey,  as  the  female  novelists  kill  their  little 
Willies  and  little  Evas.     Kill  it." 

"  Man,  would  you  make  a  parricide  of  me.'  Murder 
is  no'  ''ine  with  hands  alone.  I  loved  this  child  as 
never  ir  .ly  life  have  I  lovwl  any  one.  It's  strange  — 
I  don't  Melicve  I  ever  did  really  love  any  one  before. 
!'• .    had   an   inunense   affection    for   people;   but    for 


Dr 


;»V  I  would  have  died." 


'*  Vou  make  me  tired,  man.     She's  not  real." 

"  She  is  —  to  me;  and  supposing  for  a  moment  that 
she  isn't,  is  it  not  the  case  that  we  can  never  care  for 
real  persons  with  their  faults  and  follies  as  we  can  for 
our  idealised  abstractions?  We  never  really  love  any 
one  till  we've  lost  them.  But,  as  you  say,  I  must  rouse 
myself." 

"  W'!iy,  of  course.  Granted  that  she  really  exists  in 
the  spirit,  let  her  presence  be  a  sweetness  and  an  in- 
spiration to  you,  not  a  gnawing  sorrow.     Buck  up  I  " 

'*  You're  right.  I  must  get  to  my  writing  at  once. 
After  all  I  have  my  wife  to  think  of.     She  loves  me." 

"  She  surely'  does,  devotedly.  You  have  a  treasure 
in  her,  and  you  don't  realise  it." 

"  I  suppose  not.  My  work  takes  so  much  of  the 
power  of  feeling  out  of  me.  My  emotional  life  is  sacri- 
ficed to  it.  The  world  I  create  is  more  real  to  me  than 
the  world  about  me.     I  don't  tliink  the  creative  artist 


vm 


Tin:  STRESS  OF  THE  STRUGGLE      UV 


Ho  only  makes  an  apology  for  a  lui 


-liould  marrv, 
Lund." 

"Well,  I  tliink  a  irian  with  the  artistic  temperariient 
oiiglit  to  marry  a  woman  who  can  look  after  him  from 
the  materiil  side.  She  should  be  a  buffer  between  him 
and  the  world,  always  willing  to  keep  in  the  back- 
;;i(>und  and  never  be  a  constraint  on  him.  A  real 
^'t  nius,  on  the  other  Imnd,  ought  never  to  marry.  He's 
altogtther  too  impossible  a  person.  But  then,  Mad- 
den, you  know  you're  not  a  genius." 

He  said  this  so  oddly  that  I  burst  out  laughing,  and 
with  that  I  felt  my  grey  mootl  lifting. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Helstem,  just  as  we  were  part- 
ing, "  I  don't  like  to  mention  it,  but  what  with  hospital 
ixpenses  and  so  on  you've  been  having  a  pretty  hard 
time  of  it  lately.  I've  just  had  my  quarterly  alfowance 
—  more  money  than  I  know  what  to  do  with.  If  a 
hundred  francs  would  be  of  any  use  to  you  I'll  never 
miss  it." 

I  was  going  to  refuse ;  but  the  thought  that  the  offer 
was  made  in  such  a  generous  spirit  made  me  hesitate; 
and  the  further  thought  that  at  the  moment  all  the 
money  I  had  was  ten  francs,  made  me  accept.  So  Hel- 
stem handed  me  a  pinkish  bank  note. 

""I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,"  I  said.  "But 
don't  be  afraid,  I'll  pay  you  back  one  of  these  days. 
You  know  I've  got  a  novel  knocking  around  the  pub- 
lishers. When  it  gets  accepted  I'll  be  on  velvet.  In 
the  meantime  this  will  help  to  keep  the  pot  a-boiling. 
That  reminds  me  I  must  find  a  new  place  to  hole  up  in. 
Do  you  know  of  any  vacant  rooms  in  your  quarter?  " 

"  In  the  famous  Quartier  Mouffetard?  Come  with 
liic  and  we'll  have  a  look." 


^ 


U\H 


THF  PRETENDER 


The  result  was  tlmt  for  a  rent  of  twenty  francs  a 
month  I  found  myself  the  tenant  of  a  spacious  garret 
in  the  rue  Ciracieuse.  So,  feeling  well  pleased,  I  re- 
turned to  the  room  in  the  rue  D'Assas  to  gather  to- 
gether our  few  effects.  I  was  so  engaged  when  a  knock 
came  to  the  door  and  the  little  Breton  hofinr  appeared. 

"  A  lady  to  see  Monsieur." 

I  rose  from  the  heap  of  soiled  linen  I  was  trying  to 
compress  into  as  small  hulk  as  possihle. 

"  Show  lier  in,"'  I  said  with  some  surprise. 

Then  there  entered  one  whom  I  had  almost  forgotten 
—  Lucretia. 

My  first  thought  was:  "Thank  God!  my  wife  isn't 
here!"  My  second:  "How  can  I  get  rid  of  her.'" 
It  is  true  I  have  always  tried  to  make  life  more  like 
fiction,  to  drench  it  with  romance,  to  cultivate  it  in 
purple  patches.  Here,  then,  was  a  dramatic  situation 
I  might  have  used  in  one  of  my  novels ;  here  was  a 
sentimental  scene  I  might  develop  most  artistically; 
and  now  ni}'  whole  panting,  perspiring  anxiety  was 
not  to  develop  it.  "  Confound  it !  "  I  thought,  "  this 
should  never  have  happened.  Wliy  can**  fiction  stay 
where  it  belongs  ?  " 

Lucretia  was  dressed  with  some  exaggeration.  Her 
split  skirt  showed  a  wedge  of  purple  stocking  almost  to 
the  knee.  Her  blouse,  too,  was  of  purple,  a  colour  that 
sets  my  teeth  on  edge.  She  wore  a  mantle  of  prune 
colour,  and  a  toque  of  crushed  strawberry  velvet  with 
an  imitation  aigrette.  The  gilt  hcrls  of  her  shoes  were 
so  high  that  she  was  obliged  to  walk  in  the  mincing 
manner  of  the  mannequin. 

She  offered  mo  a  languid  hand  and  subsided  unasked 
on  the  sofa.     Her  lips  were  Cupid's  bows  of  vermilion, 


THE  STRESS  OF  THE  STRUGGLE      219 


jirul  her  complexion  was  a  work  of  art.  She  regarded 
iiH-  with  some  defiance;  then  she  spoke  in  excellent 
Frtnch. 

"■  Well,  mon  ami,  I  have  come.  You  thought  to  leave 
iiic  there  in  Napoli,  but  I  have  follow  ed  you.  Now, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  " 

"Do!"  I  said,  astounded.  "Why,  you  have  no 
claim  on  nio!  " 

*'  I  have  no  claim  on  you.  You  say  that  —  you  who 
have  stolen  my  heart,  you  who  have  made  me  suffer. 
Vou  cannot  deny  that  you  have  run  away  from  me." 

"I  don't  deny  it.  I  did  run  away  from  you;  but  it 
was  to  save  you,  to  save  us  both.  1  have  done  you  no 
w  rong." 

"  Ah !  you  thought  so.  To  leave  one  who  loved  you 
in  that  way.     That  is  like  the  Englishman." 

*•  But  good  heavens !  "  I  cried,  half  distracted,  "  I 
tliought  I  acted  for  the  best." 

"  I  love  you  still,"  she  went  on;  "  I  have  traced  you 
here;  I  am  friendless,  alone,  in  this  great  and  cruel  city. 
What  must  I  do.»" 

As  she  said  these  words,  Lucretia,  after  seeing  that 
she  possessed  a  handkerchief,  appliecl  it  to  her  eyes  so 
as  not  to  disturb  their  cosmetic  environment,  and  wept 
carefully.  There  was  no  doubting  the  genuineness  of 
her  grief.  I  was  touched.  After  all  had  I  not  roused 
a  romantic  passion  in  this  poor  girl's  heart?  Was  she 
not  the  victim  of  my  fatal  charms?  My  heart  ached 
for  her.  I  would  have  sat  down  on  the  sofa  by  her 
side  and  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  prudence  forbade. 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said,  "but  how  can  I  help  you?  I 
have  no  monev,  and  my  wife  is  in  the  hospital." 

"Your  wife!" 


220 


THK  PUKTENDER 


"  Ves ;  I'm  inarrk-d." 

"  Not  one  of  thost'  girls  I  saw  you  with  in  the  cafe 
that  night?  " 

"  Ves :  the  small  one." 

"  A — h."  She  prolonged  tlie  exclamation.  Tlun 
she  delicately  dried  her  eyes.  "That  is  different. 
What  if  I  tell  your  wife  how  you  treated  mc?  " 

"  But  I've  done  you  no  harm." 

"  Would  she  helieve  tliat,  do  you  think .=-" 

"  Hum !  no !  I  don't  think  she  would.  But  what 
good  would  it  do?  You  would  only  cause  suffering  and 
e>trangement,  and  you  would  gain  nothing.  I  told  you 
I  had  no  money  to  give  you." 

Looking  around  the  shahhy  room  she  saw  the  soiled 
linen  I  was  trying  to  do  into  a  newspaper  parcel.  This 
evidently  convinced  her  I  was  speaking  the  truth. 

"  Bah !  "  she  said,  "  why  do  you  insult  me  with  offers 
of  money .>  If  you  offered  me  ten  thousand  francs  at 
this  moment  I  would  refuse  them.  What  I  want  is  help, 
sympathy." 

*'01i!  If  it's  sympathy  you  want,"  I  said  eagerly, 
"I'm  there.  I've  gallons  of  it  on  tap.  But  help — 
what  can  I  do.''  " 

"  You  have  friends  you  can  introduce  me  to.  Can 
you  not  find  me  work  of  some  kind,?  x\ny thing  at  all 
that  will  hring  me  an  honest  living.  Rememher  I  am 
only  a  poor,  weak  woman,  and  I  love  you." 

Here  she  showed  signs  of  weeping  again. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  touched  once  more,  "  I  don't  know. 
The  men  I  know  are  all  artists."  Then  an  idea  shot 
through  me  like  a  bullet.  To  cure  a  woman  who  is 
infatuated  with  you,  introduce  her  to  some  man  who  is 
more  fascinating  than  yourself.     But  to  whom  could  I 


Tin:  STRESS  OF  THE  STRUGGLE      2ill 

transfer  this  embarrassing  affection?  Ilolstcrn?  He 
was  out  of  the  question.  Eorrimer?  Ah,  there  was 
man.  Handsome,  debonnaire  Lorrimer;  Lorrimer 
vho  prided  himself  on  being  such  a  Lothario;  whom  I 
had  heard  say :  "  Why  should  I  wrong  the  sex  whose 
privilege  it  is  to  love  mc  by  permitting  any  one  member 
to  monopolise  me? ''  Yes,  Lorrimer  should  be  the 
li  cky  one.     So  I  said: 

"  Let  mc  see ;  you  would  not  care  to  pose  for  the 
artists,  would  you?  " 

"  Ah,  vos,  I  think  that  would  suit  me  very  well  in- 
deed." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  give  you  the  address  of  an  artist 
friend.  He's  poor,  but  ho  knows  every  one.  Perhaps 
he  can  help  3'ou.  At  least  there  will  be  no  harm  in 
trying." 

So  I  gave  her  Lorrimcr*s  address,  and  she  seemed 
more  than  grateful. 

*'  Thank   you   very    much.     Shall   I   see   you   again 


^oon 


J  »• 


"  Perhaps ;  but  remember,  not  a  word  of  Xapoli." 

'"No;  trust  me.  I  am  very  discreet.  Well,  nil 
revoir." 

With  that  she  took  her  departure,  and  once  more  I 
felt  th;it  I  had  emerged  successfully  from  a  dangerous 
situation. 

On  the  following  day  I  hired  a  voiturc  a  bras,  and 
loading  on  it  my  few  poor  sticks  of  furniture  I  easily 
pulled  the  load  to  my  new  residence.  Once  there,  it 
was  surprising  how  soon  I  made  the  place  homelike. 
Anastasia  was  coming  out  of  the  hospital  the  following 
(liy,  and  I  was  intensely  eager  that  everything  should 
l>r-  cheerful.     Fortunately,  the  window  admitted  much 


222 


THE  PRETENDER 


sunlight,  and  the  slope  of  the  roof  lent  itself  to  quaint 
and  snug  effects  of  decoration.  I  really  did  wonders 
with  drapings  of  clieap  cotton>  made  a  lounge  and  a 
cosy  corner  out  of  cushions,  contrived  a  wardrobe  (in 
view  of  an  increase  in  our  prosperity),  and  constructed 
two  cunning  cupboards  within  which  all  articles  of  mere 
utility  were  hid  from  sight. 

Lorrimer  dropped  in  and  gave  me  a  hand  with  the 
finishing  touches.  He  also  loaned  me  three  lifesizc 
paintings  in  oil  to  adorn  my  walls.  They  were  studies 
for  the  forthcoming  Salon  picture  that  was  to  mark  a 
crisis  in  liis  career,  and  showed  Rougette  in  diflferent 
poses  of  the  nude.  I  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  say 
anything  about  T^ucretin  just  then. 

Helstern,  toyo,  came  to  see  how  things  were  progres- 
sing and  contributed  two  day  figures,  also  of  the  nude; 
so  that  by  the  time  everything  was  finished  my  garret 
had  bc^'.-ne  quite  a  startling  repository  of  feminine 
loveliness  unadorned.  The  following  morning  I  bought 
several  bunches  of  flowers  from  a  barrow,  at  two  sous 
a  bunch,  and  arranged  them  about  the  room.  Then  my 
two  friends  insisted  on  bringing  up  a  supply  of  food  and 
preparing  lunch. 

So  I  went  off  to  the  hospital  to  fetch  Anastasia.  I 
felt  as  excited  as  a  child,  and  for  the  moment  very 
happy.  I  had  been  to  see  her  for  a  few  moments  every 
day,  when  she  would  hold  my  hand  and  sometimes 
carry  it  to  her  lips.  She  was  of  a  deathly  whiteness 
and  more  like  a  child  than  ever.  As  she  came  out  lean- 
ing on  my  arm  I  saw  another  of  those  sobbing  girls 
leaving  the  hospital  with  her  baby. 

"  What  an  irony  t  "  I  said.  ''  There's  a  girl  would 
give  anything  not  to  have  that  infant.     It's  a  reproach 


THE  STRESS  OE  THE  STRUGGLE      iiil'6 


,111(1  a  disgrace  to  liur.  It  will  only  drag  her  down, 
prevent  her  making  a  living.  It  will  be  brought  up  in 
iiii^erv.  And  we  wiio  wanted  one  so  much,  and 
uould  have  made  It  m>  liajipy,  must  go  away  empty- 
handed." 

'•  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  sob  in  her  throat;  ''  the 
(li)etaire  tell  me  nevuire  inu-.t  1  have  anuzzer.  He  tell 
iiif  it  M ill  keel  me.  And  1  want  so  much  —  oil,  I  want 
leetle  child!" 

Hailing  a  cab,  we  were  soon  at  our  new  home.  She 
did  not  >eem  to  take  nnich  interest ;  yet,  when  she  heard 
tile  souiuls  of  welcome  from  within,  she  brightened  up. 
Then  when  the  door  was  thrown  open  she  gave  a  little 
ija>p  of  pleasure. 

••  Oh,  Em  glad,  Em  glad." 

For  I.orrimer  had  painted  a  banner,  Welcome  Honw, 
al>o\e  the  fireplace;  the  sunshine  flooded  in;  the 
(lowers  were  everywhere,  and  a  wondrous  lunch  was 
spread  on  the  table.  Then  suddenly  the  two  artists, 
>taiiding  on  either  side  of  the  doorway,  put  mirlitons 
to  their  mouths  and  burst  into  the  Marseillaise,  They 
wrung  her  hand,  and  even  (with  my  permission) 
saluted  her  on  both  cheek> ;  and  she  was  so  rarely  glad 
to  Nee  them  that  her  eyes  shone  with  tears.  So  after 
all  her  homecoming  was  far  from  a  sad  one. 

A!id  after  lunch  and  the  good  bottle  of  Ponunard 
that  Helstern  had  provided  we  discussed  plans  and 
prospects  with  the  hope  and  enthusiasm  of  beginners; 
while  j^he  listened,  but  more  housewife-like  took  stock 
ol  lier  new  home  and  its  practical  possibilities. 

Next  day  I  began  work  again.  My  idea  was  to  com- 
pletely ignore  my  own  ideals  and  turn  out  stuff  accord- 
ing to  magazine  formula.     I  had  made  an  analysis  of 


UiH 


Tin:  i'Hi/n:M)ER 


^onic  thirty  niag.izino  stories;  it  only  remained  to  mix 
them  according  to  recipe  and  serve  hot.  I  continued 
to  hire  the  rheumatic  t\pewriter,  and  composed  straiglit 
on  to  the  machine,  so  that  I  accomplished  at  'east  one 
story  a  day. 

Once  more  Anastasia  took  charge  of  the  forwarding, 
hut  she  seemed  to  have  less  entiuisiasm  now.  It  was 
as  if  Jier  severe  illness  had  taken  something  out  of  her. 
•Ml  the  money  I  had  been  able  to  give  her  was  seventy 
francs,  and  this  was  not  very  heartening.  She  got  out 
her  ru'tier  again  ;  but  she  would  often  pause  in  her  work 
as  if  lier  back  pained  luT,  and  rub  her  eyes  as  if  they 
too  ached.  Then  with  stubborn  patience  she  w'ould 
resume  lur  toil. 

One  niorniug  the  manuscript  of  7\>m,  Dick  and  Ilarri/ 
was  returned  from  the  publisher,  with  a  note  to  .say 
that  "at  that  time  when  the  taste  of  the  public  was 
.••II  for  realistic  fiction  work  of  fancy  stood  little  chance 
<»f  success  without  a  well-known  name  on  the  cover.  A> 
the  policy  of  the  firm  was  c()rl^ervative  they  were 
obliged  to  return  it." 

How  I  laughed  over  this  letter.  How  bitterly,  I 
thought,  they  would  be  chagrined  Avhen  they  found  out 
who  the  unknown  Silenus  Starset  was.  I  was  even  ma- 
liciously glad,  and,  chuckling,  sent  off  the  manuscript 
on  another  voyage  of  adventure. 

I  fairly  bombarded  t!:e  magazines  with  short  storie-<. 
There  was  not  one  of  anv  standing  that  was  not  hold- 
ing  a  manuscript  of  mine.  And  such  manuscripts,  some 
of  them!  I  was  amazed  at  my  cjieek  in  offering  them. 
I  would  sclict  one  of  my  twelve  stock  plots,  alter  tlie 
^etting,  give  it  a  dexterous  twist  or  two,  and  shoot  it 


riii:  sTUEj^s  01  Tin:  sthlggli:    .'jii5 


(itV.  Mv  iiuirk  was  a  iiiiniiiiuiii  of  u  nmnuscript  a  duv, 
aii(i  griiiilv  I  .stuck   to  it. 

For  tlirt-c  ULt-ks  I  ktpt  pounding  awav  on  my  clack- 
ing typiwritLT,  U  was  costing  us  a  small  income  in 
> tamps,  and  economy  of  the  most  rigid  kind  had  to  he 
|na(  tisicl  in  »ther  ways.  We  gave  up  eating  ordinary 
nuat  and  took  to  patronising  the  Bouchcrie  L'hcx-aliuc. 
I  came  to  ap{)reciate  a  choice  nmle  steak,  and  con- 
sidtrt'd  an  cntrecote  of  ass  a  sj.ecial  delicacy.  We  made 
-alads  of  puiret,  which  is  called  the  poor  man's  aspara- 
i^iis.  We  drank  xin  ordinaire  at  eight  sous  a  litre  and 
tuir  l)read  was  of  the  coarsest.  Down  there  in  the  rue 
Moiitl'etard  it  was  no  trouhle  to  purchase  with  economy, 
lor  everything  was  sold  from  that  standpoint. 

I  think  the  rue  Mouftetard  deserves  a  special  page 
nt'  description,  l)ecause  it  contains  the  elements  of  all 
I'aris  sluindom.  From  the  steep  and  ancient  rue  St. 
(iiiRvieve  de  Montague  l)ianches  the  dismal  rue  Des- 
(  utes.  It  runs  hetween  tall,  dreary  houses,  growing 
;4ra(lually  more  sordid;  then  suddenly,  as  if  ashamed  of 
it -elf,  it  changes  its  name  to  the  rue  Mouffetard,  and 
I'ontinues  its  infamous  wav. 

The  street  narrows  to  the  width  of  a  lani'  and  the 
houses  that  flank  it  grow  colder,  hlacker,  more  decrepit. 
The  pavement  on  either  side  is  a  mere  riiiand,  and  the 
lohhled  way  is  overrun  with  the  tlike  humanity 
-pewed  forth  from  the  sinister  houses.  The  sharp 
:,'al)les  and  raking  roofs,  out  of  which  windows  like  gap- 
ing sores  make  jagged  openings,  notch  themselves  gro- 
ttsijuely  against  the  sky.  Their  faces  are  gnawed  by 
the  teeth  of  time  and  grimy  with  the  dust  of  ages. 
Cheir  windows  are  like  blind  eyes,  barred  and  repulsiv. 


^26 


THE  I'HKTKNDKK 


Till-  (loois  that  burrow  into  tlieiii  are  iiotliing  but  black 
holes,  so  narrow  that  two  people  parsing  liave  to  turn 
sideways,  m>  dark  that  it  is  like  entering  a  eharnti 
house. 

Nearly  every  second  shop  is  a  ihupt\  a  biivette,  a 
saloon.  At  one  point  there  are  four  flustered  together. 
Some  of  these  drinking  dens  are  so  narrow  they  seem 
m«re  hoKs  in  the  wail,  scarcely  any  wider  than  the 
width  of  their  own  door,  and  running  back  like  dark 
cupboards.  And  in  them,  with  their  heads  together 
and  their  elbows  on  the  tiny  tables  you  can  see  the 
ferret-faced  I'oilo,  and  (iigolette,  liis  gosse,  of  the 
greasy  and  elal)orate  coiffure.  Hollow-cheeked,  glit- 
tering of  eye,  light  as  a  cat,  cunning,  cynical,  cruel,  he 
smokes  a  cigarette;  w!iile  she,  bra/eii,  daw-fingered, 
rapacious,  sips  from  his  Pernod. 

At  the  butchers'  only  horse-meat  is  >old.  A  golden 
horse  Usually  surmounts  the  door,  overlooking  a  sign 
—  BoHclterie  Chcvaimc,  or  sometimes  Houcheric  Hyp- 
paffiqiu'.  The  meat  is  very  dark;  the  fat  very  yellow: 
and  there  are  festoons  of  red  sausages,  very  rod  and 
glossy.  One  shop  bears  the  sign  "  House  of  Confi- 
dence." There  are  other  signs,  such  as  "  Mule  of  pre- 
mier (piality,"  "  Ass  of  first  choice," 

As  you  c'vscend  the  street  you  get  passing  glimpses 
of  inner  courts  of  hideous  .squalor,  of  side  streets,  nar- 
row and  resigned  to  misery.  Daring  odours  pollute  the 
air  and  the  way  is  now  packed  with  wretchedness. 
(Jrimy  women,  whose  idea  of  a  coiffure  is  to  get  their 
matted  hair  out  of  the  way,  trudge  draggle-skirted  by 
the  side  of  husky-throated,  undersized  men  whose  bcard> 
bristle  brutishly.  Bands  of  younger  men  hang  around 
!'      bars.     They   wear  peaked  caps  and  have  woollen 


THE  STHi:sS  OF  THE  STIUGCJLE      ^27 

bcarfb  around  their  throats.  Thiv  look  at  thi-  well- 
dressed  pusser-by  with  furtive  speculation.  They  live 
thieriy  on  the  brazen  girls  who  parade  up  and  down. 
with  their  hair  coiled  over  their  ears,  clawed  down  in 
front,  sleek  with  lirilliantine  and  studded  with  conib>. 

Then,  as  the  narrow,  tortuous  street  plunges  down 
to  the  currefour  of  the  Gobelins  it  becomes  violently 
commercial,  a  veritable  market  jammed  with  barrows, 
>tudded  with  stalls,  strident  with  street  cries  of  all 
kinds. 

Here  it  is  that  Anastasia  does  her  marketing.  It  is 
wonderful  how  nmch  she  can  bring  home  for  a  franc, 
sometimes  enough  to  till  the  net  bag  she  carries  on  her 
arm.  She  never  wears  a  hat  on  these  expeditions;  it 
is  safer  without  one. 

'I'hree  weeks  gone;  twenty  stories  written.  I  throw 
myself  back  in  weariness  and  despair.  It  is  hard  work 
<loing  three  thousand  words  a  day,  especially  when  one 
has  to  make  a  second  copy  for  the  clean  manuscript. 
I  began  at  eight  in  the  morning  and  worked  till  ten  at 
night.  My  face  ^as  thin,  my  cheeks  pale,  my  eyes  full 
of  fag  and  stress.  How  I  despised  the  work  I  was 
doing!  the  shoddy,  sentimental  piffle,  the  ansniic  twad- 
<lle,  the  pandering  to  the  vulgar  taste  for  stories  of  the 
uj)per  circles.  Ordinary  folk  not  being  sufficiently  in- 
teresting for  a  snobbish  public  my  heroes  were  seldom 
less  than  baronets.  It  got  at  last  that  every  stroke  of 
my  typewriter  jarred  some  sensitive  nerve  of  pain  in 
me  — "  Typewriter  nerves  "  they  call  it.  Then  one 
night  I  gave  up. 

"  I  won't  do  another  of  these  wretched  things,"  I 
cried;  "I'm  worked  out.  I  feel  as  if  my  brain  w.-. 
mush,  just  so  much  sloppy  stuff." 


UUH 


Tin:  I'HKTKNDKK 


"  Vou  iuu^i  take  rest,  darleen.     You  work  too  hard." 

'•  Vts,  rest  ill  >oinL'  far  South  Sea  Island  where  1 
can  forgtt  that  hooks  and  typewriters  exist.  I'm  heart- 
sick of  the  vampire  trade.  Well,  I've  reached  my  limit. 
To-morrow  I'm  ju>t  going  out  to  the  Luxemhourg  to 
loaf.  Oh.  that  lovely  word  I  I'm  going  to  sit  and  watch 
the  children  watching  the  Guignol,  and  laugh  when  they 
laugh.     That's  all  I'm  equal  to  —  the  (iuignol." 

And  I  did.  Full  of  sweet,  tired  melancholy  I  sat 
listlessly  under  the  trees,  ga/.ing  at  that  patch  of  eager, 
intense,  serious,  uproarious,  utterly  enchanted  faces, 
planted  in  front  of  the  immortal  Punch  and  Judy  show. 
Oh,  to  have  written  that  little  drama!  Every  thing 
elsf  could  go.  Oh,  to  play  on  the  emotions  like  an  in- 
strument, as  it  played  on  the  emotions  of  these  little 
ones !  What  an  audience !  How  I  envied  them  their 
fresh  keen  joy  of  appreciation!  I  felt  so  jaded,  so 
utterly  indifferent  to  all  things.  Yet  I  reflected  to 
some  extent  their  enthusiasm.  I  gaped  with  them,  I 
laughed     ith  them,  I  applauded  with  them. 

Then  with  a  suddenness  that  is  overwhelming  came 
the  thought  of  my  own  little  dream-child,  she  who  in 
years  to  come  should  have  taken  her  place  in  that  hi- 
larious band.  After  all,  the  N'oveniber  afternoon  was 
full  of  sadness.  The  withered  leaves  were  underfoot, 
and  the  vngue  despondency  of  the  waning  year  hung 
heavily  around  me.  Suddenly  all  joy  seemed  to  go 
clean  out  of  life,  and  slowly  I  returned  to  the  wretched 
quarter  in  which  I  lived. 

These  were  the  sad  days  for  us  both,  grey  days  of 
rain  and  boding.  Early  and  late  she  would  work  at 
her  embroidery,  yet  often  look  at  nie  with  a  sigh.  Then 
my  manuscripts  began  to  come  back.     Luckily,  two 


Tin:  sTUKss  oi-  tiii:  sTuroGLE    220 


were  accepted,  one  In-  n  ,so<i(  |y  weekly,  th»'  otlier  hy  a 
V.  nnmn's  journal.  The  l,'»tt»r  was  to  he  paid  for  on 
puhlication;  but  I  wrote  pleading  necessity  for  the 
money  and  it  was  forthcoming.  The  two  netted  us 
three  pounds  ten,  enough  to  pay  the  rent  and  tide  us 
liver  for  another  month. 

Once  more  Tom,  Duk  ntul  Unrri/  was  returned,  and 
once  more  gallantly  despatched.  About  this  time  I 
began  to  lose  all  confidence  in  myself.  On  one  occasion 
I  said  to  her: 

"  Sec,  Little  Thing,  what  a  poor  husband  you  have. 
He  can't  even  support  you." 

"  I  have  the  best  husl)and  in  the  world.  Courage, 
darleen.  P'.vervthing  will  eome  vet  virv  right  I 
know." 

"  If  only  our  child  had  lived,"  I  said  moodily,. gazing 
at  the  sodden,  sullen  sky. 

Sitting  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap  she  did  not 
answer.  I  saw  that  she  drew  back  from  her  beautiful 
embroidery  so  that  a  slow-filling  tear  would  not  stain 
it. 

"  You  know,"  I  went  on,  "  I  can't  believe  we've  lost 
her.  Seems  to  mc  she's  with  us.  I  let  myself  think 
of  her  too  much.  I  can't  help  it.  I  loved  her.  God, 
how  I  loved  her!     I  never  loved  any  one  else  like  that.'' 

She  looked  at  me  piteously,  but  I  did  not  see. 

And  next  day,  in  a  pouring  rain,  I  walked  to  the 
cemetery  and  stood  for  an  hour  by  an  almost  undis- 
iinguishable  little  grave.  I  got  back,  as  they  say, 
•'  wet  as  the  soup,"  and  contracted  a  severe  chill.  Anas- 
tasia  made  me  stay  in  bed,  and  looked  after  me  like  a 
mother. 

Yes,  these  were  sad  days;  and  there  wire  times  when 


2230 


Tin:  PRi  ri:M)EH 


I  fflt  movrd  to  own  defeat,  to  acknowledge  surress,  to 
accept  the  fortune  I  had  gained.  Then  I  ground  niv 
teeth. 

"  No,  I  won't.     I'm  hanged  if  I  do.     Til  play  the 
j^ame,  and  in  spite  of  it  all  I'll  win." 


CHAPTER  II 

THF,  OAHKEST  HOUR 

Thk  past  month  has  been  the  hardest  we  have  yet  ex- 
inrienced.  After  paying  the  rent  wo  had  about  fifty 
francs  to  keep  the  house  going.  Not  that  it  mattered 
nnich ;  for  we  both  had  such  listless  appetites  and  ate 
next  to  nothing.  I  refused  to  do  any  more  pot-boiling 
work.  For  distraction  I  turned  again  to  the  stud}'  of 
tjje  Quartier,  to  my  browsings  in  its  ancient  by-ways. 
Amid  these  old  streets  that,  like  a  knot  of  worms,  clus- 
ter around  the  Pantheon,  I  managed  to  conjure  up 
many  a  ghost  of  bygone  Bohemia.  As  a  result  I  be- 
gan a  series  of  three  papers  which  I  called  Demi-godx 
in  the  Dint.  They  were  devoted  to  the  last  sad  days 
of  De  Musset,  Verlaine  and  Wilde,  those  strong  souls 
whose  liauont  with  the  powers  of  evil  plunged  them  to 
the  utter  depths. 

The  rue  Gracieuse,  where  we  reside,  is  probably  one 
of  the  least  gracious  streets  of  Paris.  Its  lower  end  is 
grubbily  respectable,  its  upper,  glaringly  disreputable. 
It  is  in  the  latter  we  have  our  room.  The  houses  are 
small,  old,  mean,  dirty.  There  are  four  drinking  dens, 
and  the  cobbles  ring  to  the  clang  of  wooden  shoes.  The 
most  prominent  building  is  a  hotel  meuhJe,  a  low,  lep- 
rous edifice  with  two  windows  real,  and  four  false.  The 
effect  of  these  dummy  windows  painted  on  the  stone  is 
oddly  sinister.  Underneath  is  a  drinking  den  of  un- 
savoury size,  and  opposite  an  old  junk  shop.     At  night 

23\ 


232 


THE  PHKTENDKH 


till-  street  is  fcvhly  lit  bv  two  gas  laiiips  tliat  sprout 
Iroin  th<-  uall. 

I.iukilv.  (iiir  window  f;ict>  tlir  r»if  .Mon^i'.  If  it 
fronted  on  the  rue  Saint-.Medard  we  should  be  unable 
to  live  there,  for  the  rue  Saint-Medard,  in  spite  of  the 
apostolic  noiiienelature,  is  probably  the  most  disgusting 
street  in  I'aris. 

It  is  old,  three  hundred  years  or  more,  and  tiio 
houses  that  englooni  it  are  blaek,  corroded  and  decrepit. 
Its  lower  end  is  blocked  by  the  aforesaid  hostel  of  the 
blind  windows,  its  upper  is  narrow  and  wry-necked 
where  the  Hotel  des  Hous  Gar<,'<)iis  bulges  into  it.  Be- 
tween the  two  is  a  dim,  verminous  gulf  of  mildewed 
masonry.  The  timid,  well-dressed  person  pauses  on  its 
threshold  and  turns  back.  For  the  police  seldom  trou- 
ble it,  and  tlie  stranger  passing  through  has  a  sense 
of  being  in  some  desperate  cul-de-sac,  and  at  the  mercy 
of  a  villainous,  outlawed  population.  They  crawl  to 
their  doors  to  stare  resentfuily  at  the  intruder,  often 
call  harshly  after  him,  and  sometimes  stand  right  in  the 
way,  with  an  insolent,  provocative  leer.  A  glance 
round  shows  that  other  figures  have  cut  off  the  retreat 
from  behind,  and  for  a  moment  one  has  a  sense  of  being 
trapped.  It  is  quite  a  relief  to  gain  the  comparative 
security  of  the  rue  Mouffetard. 

But  what  gives  the  rue  Saint-Medard  its  character 
of  supreme  loathsomeness  is  because  it  is  the  headquar- 
ters of  the  chiffonu'rs.  These  hereditary  scavengers, 
midden-rakers,  ordure-sifters,  monopolise  its  disease- 
ridden  ruins,  living  in  their  inmiemorial  dirt.  They  are 
creatures  of  the  night,  yet  one  may  sometimes  see  a  few 
of  them  shambling  forth  to  blink  with  bleary  eves  at 


THE  DARKEST  HOUR  253 

the  sun,  their  hair  long  and  matted,  the  dirt  grained 
into  their  skins,  their  clothes  corroded,  their  hoots  agape 
at  the  seams  —  very  spawn  of  the  ashpit. 

And  oh,  the  odour  of  the  street !  The  mere  memory 
makes  me  feel  a  nausea.  It  is  the  acrid  odour  of  decay, 
of  ageless,  indomitable  squalor.  It  assails  you  the  mo- 
ment you  enter  that  gap  of  ramshackle  ruins,  pungent, 
penetrating,  almost  palpable.  It  is  the  choking  odour 
of  an  ash-bin,  an  ash-bin  that  is  very  old  and  is  almost 
eaten  away  by  its  own  putridity. 

Then  on  a  Sunday  morning  w  hen  the  rou  Mouffetard 
is  such  a  carnival  of  sordid  satisfactions  the  snakelike 
head  of  the  rue  Saint-Mcdard  is  devoted  to  the  marche 
pouiUeux.  Here  come  the  chiffoniers  and  spread  out 
the  treasures  they  have  discovered  during  the  week. 
Over  a  greai  array  of  his  wares,  all  spread  out  on  mil- 
dewed sheets  of  newspj'per,  stands  an  old  chiffonier  in 
a  stove-pipe  hat.  He  also  wears  a  rusty  frock  coat, 
and  with  a  cane  points  temptingly  to  his  stock.  His 
white  beard  and  moustache  arc  ambor  round  the  mouth, 
with  the  stain  of  tobacco,  and  in  a  hoarse  alcoholic  voice 
ho  draws  our  attention  to  a  discarded  corset,  a  pair 
of  moth-eaten  trouser-s,  a  frying-pan  with  a  hole  in  it, 
an  alarm  clock  minus  the  minute  hand,  a  hair  brush 
almost  innocent  of  bristles  —  any  of  which  we  may  have 
for  a  sou  or  two. 

Such  then  is  the  monstrous  rue  Saint-Medard,  and 
on  a  dark,  wet  November  day,  when  its  characteristic 
odour  is  more  than  usually  audacious ;  when  the  black, 
irregular  houses,  like  rows  of  decayed  teeth,  seem  to 
draw  closer  together;  when  the  mildewed  walls  steam 
loathfully :  when  the  jagged  roofs  are  black  against  the 


m 


y:M- 


Tin:  imu:ti:m)eh 


sky  and  the  sinister  .^liadows  crawl  from  the  darkened 
rloorways, —  it  is  more  like  a  horrible  nightmare  than 
a  reality. 

But  the  niisery  of  others  often  makes  us  forget  our 
own,  and  one  day  Helstern  broke  in  on  us  looking  grim- 
mer than  ever. 

"  Have  you  heard  that  our  little  Soloi.ge  is  very  ill  ?  " 

"Xo.     What's  the  matter?" 

'*  Typhoid.  Her  mother  is  nursing  her.  You  might 
go  down  and  see  her,  Madam.  It  will  he  a  comfort  to 
her." 

Anastasia  straightened  herself  from  the  metier  over 
which  she  was  stooping. 

'*  Yes,  yes,  I  go  at  once.  Oh,  poor  Frosine !  Poor 
Solonge ! " 

As  I  looked  at  her  it  suddenly  struck  me  that  she 
lierself  did  not  look  much  to  brag  about.  But  she  put 
on  her  mantle  and  we  followed  Helstern  to  the  rue 
Mazarin. 

"  It  was  like  this,"  he  told  us.  "  I  had  an  idea  of 
a  statue  to  be  called  Bedtime.  It  was  to  be  a  little 
Solonge,  clad  in  her  chemise  and  hugging  a  doll  to  her 
breast.  So  I  went  to  see  the  mother  and  found  the 
child  had  been  sick  for  some  days.  I  fetched  the  doc- 
tor; none  too  soon.  WeVe  got  to  pull  the  kid 
through." 

We  found  the  Mome  lying  in  an  apatheti'*  way,  her 
lovely  hair  streaming  over  the  pillow,  her  face  already 
hollow  and  strange-looking.  She  regarded  us  dully, 
but  with  no  sign  of  recognition.  Then  she  seemed  to 
sleep,  and  her  eyes,  barely  clc od,  showed  the  whites 
between  the  long  lashes. 

Frosine  was  calm  and  courageous,  but  her  face  was 


THE  DARKEST  HOUR 


235 


worn  with  long  vigils,  and  her  eyes,  usually  so  cheerful, 
wtrc  now  of  a  tragic  seriousness.  She  turned  to  u« 
eagerly. 

"  I  can't  get  her  roused,  my  little  one.  Not  even 
for  her  mother  will  she  smile.  She  just  lies  there  as  if 
^lio  wore  tired.  If  she  begins  to  sleep,  she  twitches  and 
(ipens  her  eyes  again.  It  was  a  week  ago  I  first  no- 
ticed she  was  ailing.  She  could  scarcely  hold  up  her 
arms  as  I  went  to  dress  her.  So  I  put  her  to  bed  again, 
and  ever  since  she's  been  sinking.  She's  all  I've  got  in 
the  world  and  I'm  af»-aid  I'm  going  to  lose  her.  Will- 
ingly would  I  go  in  her  place." 

We  arranged  that  Anastasia  would  remain  there  and 
take  turns  watching  by  the  bedside  of  the  Mome;  then 
I  returned  to  our  garret  alone. 

It  was  more  trying  t^an  ever  now.  Every  day  some 
of  my  manuscripts  came  back,  and  I  had  not  the  cour- 
age to  send  them  out  again.  My  novel,  too,  made  its 
appearance  one  morning  with  the  usual  letter  of  regret. 
More  sensitive  than  other  men,  it  says  much  for  au- 
thors that  they  bear  up  so  well  under  successive  blows 
of  fate.  With  me  a  rejection  meant  a  state  of  bitter 
f^'loom  for  the  rest  of  the  day ;  and  as  nearly  every  day 
brought  its  rejection,  cheerful  intervals  were  few  and 
far  between. 

To  get  the  proper  working  stimulus  I  drank  immense 
quantities  of  strong  black  coffee.  In  my  desperate 
mood  I  think  I  would  have  taken  hasheesh  if  necessary. 
It  was  the  awful  brain  nausea  that  distressed  me  most, 
the  sense  of  having  so  much  to  say  and  being  unable  to 
say  it.  I  had  moods  of  rage  and  misery,  and  sometimes 
I  wondered  if  it  was  not  through  these  that  men  entered 
into  the  domain  of  madness. 


y.'W 


THE  i'iii:Ti:M)KR 


But  aftrr  about  six  cups  of  roffpc  I  would  brightpn 
mirarulously.  My  brain  would  be  a  gleaming,  exulting, 
conquering  thing.  I  would  feel  the  direct  vision,  the 
power  of  forth-right  expression.  Thrilling  with  joy, 
I  would  rush  to  my  typewriter,  and  no  power  could 
drag  me  away  from  it.  If  Anastasia  approached  me 
at  such  a  moment  I  would  wave  my  arm  franticallv: 

"  Oh,  please  go  away.     Don't  bother  me." 

Then,  holding  my  head  clutched  in  both  hands,  and 
glaring  at  the  machine,  I  would  try  to  catch  up  the 
broken  thread  of  my  ideas. 

What  an  unsatisfactory  life!  Dull  as  ditchwater 
for  days,  then  suddenly  a  change,  a  bewildering  sense 
of  fecundity,  a  brilliant  certainty  of  expression.  Lo! 
in  an  hour  I  had  accomplished  the  work  of  a  week.  But 
such  hours  were  becoming  more  and  more  rare  with 
me,  and  more  and  more  had  I  recourse  to  the  deadly 
black  coffee.  And  if  the  retu.n  of  my  stories  hurt  my 
pride,  that  of  my  novel  was  like  a  savage,  stunning 
blow.  I  ground  my  teeth  and  (carefully  observing  that 
there  was  no  fire  in  the  grate)  I  hurled  it  dramatically 
to  the  flames.  Then  Anastasia  reverently  picked  it 
up,  tenderly  arranged  it,  and  prepared  it  for  another 
sally. 

"  This  will  be  the  last  time,"  I  would  swear.  "  You 
can  send  it  one  time  more:  then  —  to  hell  with  it." 

And  I  would  laugh  bitterly  as  I  thought  of  its  far 
different  fate  if  only  I  would  sign  it  with  the  name  I 
had  a  right  to  sign  it  with.  What  a  difference  a  mere 
name  made!  Was  it  then  that  my  work  was  ^nly  sell- 
ing on  account  of  my  name.?  Was  it  then  that  in  itself 
it  had  no  merit.?  Was  I  really  a  poor,  incompetent 
devil  who  had  succeeded  by  a  fluke?     "I  must  win,"  I 


THE  DARKEST  HOUR 


237 


cried  in  the  emptiness  of  the  garret.  "  My  pride,  my 
^elf-respect  demand  it.  If  I  fail  I  swear  I'll  never 
write  again." 

There  were  times  when  I  longed  to  go  out  and  work 
with  pick  and  shovel.  Distressed  with  doubt  I  would 
gaze  down  at  the  dancing  waters  of  the  Seine  and  long 
to  be  one  of  those  men  steering  the  barges,  a  creature 
of  healthy  appetites  with  no  thought  beyond  work,  food 
and  sleep.  Oh,  to  get  away  on  that  merry,  frolicsome 
water,  somewhere  far  from  this  Paris,  somewhere  where 
trees  were  fluttering  and  fresh  breezes  blowing. 

Ah!  that  was  the  grey  Christmas.  Everything  the 
same  as  last  —  the  booths,  the  toy-vendors,  the  holly 
and  the  mistletoe,  the  homeward-hurrying  messengers  of 
Santa  Claus  —  everything  the  same,  yet  oh,  how  diflFor- 
cnt !  Where  now  was  the  singing  of  the  heart,  the  hrill- 
ing  to  life's  glory?  Did  I  dream  it  all?  Or  was  I 
dreaming  now?  As  I  toiled,  toiled  within  myself,  how 
like  a  dream  was  all  that  happened  without !  Yes,  all 
of  the  last  year  seemed  so  unreal  that  if  I  had  awakened 
in  America  and  had  found  this  Paris  and  all  it  had 
meant  an  elaborate  creation  of  the  magician  Sleep,  I 
would  not  have  been  greatly  surprised.  It  has  always 
been  like  that  with  me,  the  inner  life  real,  the  outer  a 
dream. 

I  walked  the  crowded  Boulevards  again,  but  with  no 
Little  Thing  by  my  side.  Ah!  here  was  the  very  cafe 
where  we  sat  a  while  and  heard  a  woman  sing  a  faded 
ballad.  Poor  Little  Thing!  She  was  not  on  my  arm 
now.  And,  come  to  think  of  it,  she  too  used  to  sing 
in  those  days,  sing  all  the  time.  But  not  any  more, 
never  a  single  note. 

At  that  moment  she  was  watching  by  the  bedside  of 


HUH 


THE  PRETENDER 


the  Munie,  she  who  herself  needed  care  and  watching. 
She  had  been  the  good,  good  wife,  yet  I  had  never  cared 
for  her  as  I  ought.  I  was  always  like  that,  longing  for 
the  things  I  had  not,  careless  of  what  I  had.  Perhaps 
even  if  the  child  had  lived  I  would  have  transferred  my 
affections  elsewhere.  But  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of 
that.  No,  my  love  for  the  child  would  have  been  an 
ideal  that  nothing  could  dim. 

But  if  Christmas  was  grey.  New  Year's  Day  was 
black.  Anastasia  came  back  with  bad  news  from  the 
sick  room.  The  Mome  wa>s  gratlually  growing  weaker. 
Helstern  had  brought  her  a  golden-brown  Teddy  bear 
and  had  held  it  out  to  her,  but  -he  had  looked  at  it  with 
the  heart-breaking  indifference  of  one  who  hud  no  more 
need  to  take  an  interest  in  such  things.  Her  manner 
had  that  aloofness,  that  strange,  wise  calmness  that 
makes  the  faces  of  d^'ing  children  so  much  older,  so  much 
loftier  than  the  faces  of  their  elders.  It  is  the  pitying 
regard  of  those  who  are  on  the  brink  of  freedom  for  us 
whom  they  leave  in  the  prison  of  the  flesh. 

"  Little  Thing,"  I  said  one  day,  gazing  grimly  at  the 
tobacco  tin  that  acted  as  our  treasurv,  "  what  are  we  to 
do.'*  We've  only  one  franc  seventy -five  left  us,  and  the 
rent  is  due  to-morrow." 

She  went  over  to  her  metier  and  held  up  the  most 
beautiful  piece  of  embroidery  I  had  yet  seen. 

"  Courage,  darleen.  The  sun  shine  again  very  soon, 
I  sink.  Now  we  can  sell  this.  I  am  so  glad.  It  seem 
Zaire  is  so  leetle  I  can  do." 

"No,  no;  I  can't  let  you  sell  it.  I  don't  want  to 
part  with  any  of  your  work.  Let  me  take  it  to  the 
Mont-de-Pietc.     Then  wc  can  get  it  back  some  day." 


THE  DARKEST  HOUR 


iS9 


"  But  Zaire  we  onlv  get  half  what  wt-  have  if  we 
sell  it." 

"  Never  mind.  Perhaps  it  will  be  enough  to  tide  us 
over  for  a  day  or  two." 

I  realised  thirty  francs  for  the  cushion  cover,  paid 
the  rent,  and  was  about  seven  francs  to  the  good.  "  We 
can  go  on  for  another  week  anyway,"  I  said. 

During  this  black  month  I  only  saw  Lorrimer  once. 
It  wus  on  the  Boul'  Mich'  and  he  was  in  a  great  hurry, 
but  he  stopped  a  moment. 

"  I  say,  Madden,  was  it  you  who  sent  me  the  Dago 
skirt?  Where  did  you  dig  her  up?  Slie's  a  good  type 
and  makes  a  splendid  foil  to  Rougette.  I've  changed 
my  plans  and  begun  a  new  Salon  picture  with  both  girls 
in  it.  Come  up  and  see  it  soon.  It's  great.  I'm  sure 
the  crisis  in  my  fortune  has  come  at  last.  Well,  good- 
bye now.     Thanks  for  sending  me  the  model." 

He  was  off  before  I  could  say  a  word ;  but  in  spite  of 
the  wondrous  picture  I  did  not  go  to  his  studio. 

I  had  finished  my  Demi-gods  in  the  Dust  articles. 
As  far  as  finish  and  force  went  I  thought  them  the  best 
work  I  had  ever  done.  Now  I  began  a  series  of  genre 
stories  of  the  Paris  slums,  called  Chronicles  of  the  Cafe 
Pas  Chemise.  I  rarely  went  out.  I  worked  all  the 
time,  or  tried  to  work  all  the  time.  I  might  as  well 
work,  I  thought,  for  I  could  not  sleep.  That  worried 
me  more  than  anything,  my  growing  insomnia.  For 
hours  every  night  I  would  lie  with  nerves  a-tingle,  hear- 
ing the  noctambules  in  the  rue  Monge,  the  thundering 
crash  of  the  motor-buses,  the  shrill  outcries  from  the 
boozing  den  below,  the  awakening  of  the  chiffoniers  in 
the  rue  Saint-Medard :  all  the  thousand  noises  of  noc- 


2  to 


THE  PRETENDER 


turnal  invstery.  cruelty  and  crime.  Then  I  would  rise 
in  the  morning  distracted  and  wretched,  and  not  till  I 
had  disposed  of  two  big  cups  of  coflFee  would  I  feel  able 
to  begin  work  again. 

Then  one  morning  I  arose  and  we  had  no  more  money 
—  well,  just  a  few  sous,  enough  to  buy  a  crust  or  so  for 
(h'jeuner.  She  took  it  as  she  went  on  her  way  to  the 
bedside  of  the  dying  Mome.  She  was  a  brave  little  soul, 
and  usually  made  a  valiant  effort  to  cheer  me,  but  this 
morning  she  could  not  conceal  her  dejection.  She  kissed 
me  good-bye  with  tears  coursing  down  her  checks. 
Then  I  was  alone.  Never  had  the  sky  seemed  so  grey, 
>o  hopeless. 

•'  I  fear  I'm  beaten,"  I  said.  "  I've  made  a  hard  fight 
and  I've  been  found  wanting.  I  am  supposed  to  be  a 
capable  writing  man.  I'm  a  fraud.  I  can't  earn  my 
salt  with  my  pen.  The  other  was  only  an  accident. 
It's  a  good  thing  to  know  oneself  at  one's  true  value. 
I  might  have  gone  on  till  the  end  of  the  chapter,  lulled 
in  my  fatuous  vanity.     I'm  humble  now;  I'm  crushed." 

I  sat  there  gazing  at  the  drear}'  roofs. 

"  Well,  I've  had  enough.  Here's  where  I  throw  up 
the  sponge.  I'm  going  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life 
planting  cabbages  in  New  Jersey.  If  it  was  only  for 
myself  I'd  never  give  in.  I've  got  just  enough  mule 
spirit  to  fight  on  till  I'm  hurt,  but  I  can't  let  others  get 
hurt  too.  Already  I've  gone  too  far.  I've  been  a  bit 
of  a  brute.     But  it's  all  over.     I've  lost,  I've  lost." 

I  threw  myself  back  on  my  bed,  unstrung,  morbid, 
desperate.  Then  suddenly  I  sprang  up,  for  there  came 
u  knocking  at  the  door. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  dawn- 


It  was  the  postman,  not  the  usual  bearer  of  dejected 
manuscripts;  another,  older,  more  d.dtinguished. 

"  Registered  letter.  Monsieur.** 

Wondcringly  I  signed  for  it.  The  man  lingered,  but 
I  had  no  offering  for  the  great  god  Pourboire.  I  re- 
;,'arded  the  letter  curiously.  It  was  from  MacWaddy 
\  Wedge,  the  last  people  to  whom  I  had  sent  Tom, 
Dick  and  Harry.  All  I  knew  of  them  was  that  they 
wore  a  new  firm  who  had  adopted  the  advertising  meth- 
ods of  the  Yankees,  to  the  horror  of  the  old  and  crusted 
British  publisher.  In  consequence  they  had  done  well, 
iind  were  disposed  to  take  risks  where  new  writers  were 
concerned. 

Well,  what  was  in  the  letter?  Like  a  man  who  stands 
before  a  closed  door,  which  may  open  on  Hell  or  Heaven, 
I  hesitated.  Then  in  fear  and  trembling  I  broke  the 
soul.     This  is  what  I  read : 

"  Dear  Sir, —  We  have  perused  with  interest  your  novel, 
Tom,  Dick  and  Harry,  and  are  minded  to  include  it  in  our 
Frivolous  Fiction  Library.  As  your  work  is  entirely  un- 
known, and  we  will  find  it  necessary  to  do  a  great  deal 
of  advertising  in  connection  with  it,  we  are  thus  incurring 
a  considerable  financial  risk.  Nevertheless,  we  are  pre- 
pared to  offer  you  a  five  per  cent,  royalty  on  all  sales;  or, 
if  you  prefer  it,  we  will  purchase  the  British  and  Colonial 
riglits  for  one  hundred  pounds. 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"  MacWaddy  &  Wedof 
Ml 


II 


UV2 


Tin:  rUKTENDER 


"  P.S. —  Our  Mr.  Wedge-  in  at  present  in  ParU  for  a 
day  or  two,  so  if  you  call  un  him  you  might  arrange  de- 
tails of  publication.  His  address  is  the  Hotel  Cosmopoli- 
tan." 

I  sat  staring  at  the  letter.  It  had  come  at  last, — 
Success!  One  hundred  pounds!  Twenty-five  hundred 
francs!  Why,  at  the  present  rate  of  living  it  would 
keep  us  for  two  years;  at  the  rate  of  the  rue  Mazarin, 
marly  twelve  months.  Never  before  had  I  realised  that 
money  meant  so  much.  The  prospect  of  living  once 
more  at  the  rate  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs  a  month 
intoxicated  me.  It  meant  chicken  and  champagne  sup- 
pers; it  meant  evenings  at  the  moving  picture  show; 
it  even  meant  indulgence  in  a  meerschaum  pipe.  Hur- 
rah! How  lovely  everything  would  be  ugain.  As  I 
executed  a  wild  dance  of  delight  I  waved  the  letter  tri- 
umphantly in  the  air.  All  the  joy,  the  worth-whileness 
of  life,  surged  buck  again.  I  wanted  to  rush  away  and 
tell  Anastasin ;  then  suddenly  I  sobered  myself. 

"  I  must  contrive  to  see  this  Mr.  Wedge  at  once.  And 
I  mustn't  go  looking  like  an  understudy  for  a  scare- 
crow.    Happy  thought  —  Helstern.'* 

I  found  the  sculptor  in  bed.  "  Hullo,  old  man!**  I 
cried,  "  if  you  love  me  lend  me  a  collar.  I've  got  to 
interview  a  blooming  publisher.  Just  sold  a  novel  —  a 
hundred  quid." 

'*  Congratulations,"  growled  Helstern  from  the  blan- 
kets. "  Take  anything  you  want.  Light  the  gas  when 
you  go  out,  ana  put  on  my  kettle.'* 

So  I  selected  a  collar ;  then  a  black  satin  tie  tempted 
me;  then  a  waistcoat  seemed  to  match  it  so  well;  then 
a  coat  seemed  to  match  the  waistcoat ;  then  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  make  a  complete  job  and  take  a  pair  of 


THE  DAWN 


S4!3 


trousers  and  a  long  cape^oat.  As  Helstern  it  bulkier 
Hmn  I,  tlie  clothes  fitted  where  they  touched,  but  the 
fiisemble  was  artistic  enough. 

"  I'm  off,  oh,  sleepy  one ! "  I  called.  **  Be  back  in 
two  hours  or  so.  Your  water's  nearly  boiling.  By  the 
way,  how  did  you  leave  the  Mome?'* 

"  Better,  thank  'i  aven.  I  do  believe  the  kid's  going 
to  pull  through.  L.ast  night  she  seemed  to  chirp  up 
some.     She  actually  deigned  to  notice  her  Teddy  bear." 

"  Good.  I'm  so  glad.  You  know,  I  believe  the  New 
Year's  going  to  open  up  a  new  vein  of  happiness  for 
us  all." 

'•  We  need  it.  Well,  come  back  and  we'll  drink  to 
the  healths  of  Publishers  and  Sinners.** 

It  seemed  my  luck  was  holding,  for  I  caught  Mr. 
Wedge  just  as  he  was  leaving  the  luxurious  hotel.  1 
guve  my  name  and  stated  my  business. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  publisher,  leading  the  way  to  the 
gorgeous  smoking-room.  Mr.  Wedge  was  a  blonde, 
l)land  man,  designed  on  a  system  of  curves.  He  was  the 
travelling  partner,  the  entertainer,  the  upholder  of  the 
".(•cial  end  of  the  business.  Immensely  popular  was  Mr. 
Wedge.  Mr.  MacWaddy,  I  afterwards  found,  was 
equally  the  reverse.  A  meagre  little  man,  spectacled 
and  keen  as  a  steel  trap,  he  was  so  Scotch  that  it  was 
said  he  did  not  dot  his  "  i''s  "  in  order  to  save  the  ink. 
However,  with  MacWaddy's  acumen  and  Wedge*8  ur- 
banity, the  combination  was  a  happy  one. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  latter  affably,  offering  me  a  cigar 
with  a  gilt  band,  "  we'll  be  glad  to  publish  your  book, 
Mr.  Madden.  By  the  way,  no  connection  of  Madden, 
the  well-known  American  novelist ;  writes  under  the 
name  of  Norman  Dane?  " 


2U 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  Ye-cs  —  only  a  distant  one." 

"  How  interesting.  Wish  you  could  get  him  to  tlirc  * 
something  our  way.  We'd  be  awfully  glad  to  show 
what  we  could  do  with  his  books.  They're  just  the  sort 
of  thing  we  go  in  for  —  light,  sensational,  easy-to-read 
novels.  He's  a  great  writer,  your  cousin  —  I  think  you 
said  your  cousin?  —  knows  how  to  hit  the  public  taste. 
His  books  may  not  be  literary,  but  '^hey  sell;  and  that's 
how  we  publishers  judge  books.  Well,  I  hope  you're 
going  to  follow  in  his  footsteps.  Seems  to  run  in  the 
fiimily,  the  fiction  gift.  By  the  way,  I'd  better  make 
out  a  contract  form,  and,  while  I  think  of  it,  I'll  give 
you  an  advance.     Twenty  pounds  do.'  " 

"  You  might  make  it  forty,  if  it's  all  the  same." 

Mr.  Wedge  drew  his  cheque  for  that  amount,  and  I 
signed  a  receipt. 

"  I'm  just  going  round  to  the  bank,"  he  continued. 
"  Come  with  me,  and  I'll  get  the  cheque  cashed  for  3'ou." 

So  in  ten  minutes'  time  I  said  good-bye  to  him  and 
was  hurrying  home  with  the  money  in  my  pocket.  The 
sun  was  shining,  the  sky  a  dome  of  lapis  lazuli,  the 
Seine  affable  as  ever.  Once  again  it  was  the  dear  Paris 
I  loved,  the  city  of  life  and  light.  In  a  perfect  efferves- 
cence of  joy  I  bounded  upstairs  to  the  garret.  Then 
(luite  suddenly  and  successfully  I  concealed  my  elation. 

"  Hullo,  Little  Thing !  "  I  sighed.  "  Whathave  you 
got  for  dinner.'     It's  foolish  how  I  am  hungry." 

"  I  have  do  the  best  I  can,  darleen,"  Anastasia  said 
sadly.  "There  was  not  much  of  noney  —  only  forty- 
five  centimes.  See,  I  have  buy  sausage  and  salad  and 
some  bread.  That  leave  for  supper  to-night  four  sous. 
'•o  on.      Eat,  darloen.     I  don't  want  anything,'* 

r  looked  at  the  glossy  red  sancissoti-a-la-mulet.  the 


THE  DAWN 


i>i.-) 


stringy  head  of  chicory,  the  stale  bread.  After  all, 
spread  out  there  and  backed  by  a  steaming  jug  of  cof- 
fee, it  didn't  look  such  a  bad  repast.  I  kissed  her  for 
the  pains  she  had  taken. 

"  Hold  up  your  apron,"  I  said  sadly. 

Wonderingly  she  obeyed.  Then  I  threw  into  it  one 
by  one  ten  crisp  pink  bank-notes,  each  for  one  hundred 
francs.  I  thought  her  eyes  would  drop  out,  they  were 
so  wide. 

"  Eight  —  nine  —  ten  hundred.  There,  I  guess  we 
(•«n  afTord  to  go  out  to  dejeuner  to-d.iy.  What  do  you 
say  to  our  old  friend,  the  oi.fe  Soufflet  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  true,  this  money?  You  are  not  doing  thi* 
for  laughing?  " 

"  You  bet  your  life.  It's  real  money.  There's  more 
of  it  coming  up,  fifteen  more  of  these  billets  deux.  So 
come  on  to  the  cafe,  Little  Thing,  and  I'll  tell  you  all 
the  good  tidings." 

Seated  in  the  restaurant,  I  w  in  tlie  dizziest  heights 
of  rapture,  and  bubbling  over  w.tn  plans.  Such  a  dra- 
matic plunge  into  prosperity  dazzled  me. 

"  First  of  all,"  I  said,  "  we  must  both  from  head  to 
heel  get  a  complete  outfit  of  new  clothes.  We'll  eacli 
take  a  hundred  francs  and  spend  the  afternoon  buying 
things.  Then  I'll  get  our  stuff  out  of  pawn.  Then  as 
soon  as  we  get  things  straight  we'll  find  a  new  apart- 
ment." 

Suddenly  she  stopped  me.  **MonDkn!  Where  you 
get  the  clothes?  " 

"  Oh,  I  quite  forgot.  They're  Helstern's.  I'll  just 
run  round  to  his  place  to  return  them.  He  might  want 
to  go  out.  Here,  give  me  one  of  those  bits  of  paper 
and  I'll  pay  my  debts." 


^46 


TiiK  i»hkti:m)i:r 


I  found  the  sculptor  in  his  underwear,  philosophically 
smoking  his  Turk's  head  pipe. 

"  Awfully  obliged,  old  man,  for  the  togs.  I  never 
could  have  ventured  into  that  hotel  in  my  old  ones. 
Well,  here's  the  money  you  lent  mc,  and  a  thousand 
thanks." 

"  Sure  you  can  spare  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  another  if  you  want  it.  Why,  man,  I'm 
a  little  Cra?sus.  I'm  simply  reeking  with  the  stuff.  I 
feel  as  if  I  could  buy  up  the  Bank  of  France.  Just 
touched  a  thou',  and  more  coming  up." 

"  W^ell,  I'm  awfully  glad  for  your  sake.  I'm  glad  to 
get  this  money,  too.  D'ye  know  what  I'm  going  to  do 
with  it?  I'm  going  to  hire  a  nurse  for  Solonge.  It 
will  relieve  the  tension  somewhat.  What  with  watching 
and  a^xiet}',  we're  all  worn  out.  And,  Madden,  excuse 
mo  nK>ntioning  it,  but  that  little  woman  of  yours  wants 
looking  after.  She's  not  overstrong,  in  an}'  case,  and 
she's  been  working  herself  to  death.  I  don't  know  what 
we  would  have  done  without  her  down  there,  but  there 
were  times  when  I  was  on  the  point  of  sending  her 
home." 

"  All  right.  Thanks  for  telling  me.  I  say,  as  far 
as  the  Mome  is  concerned,  I'd  like  to  do  something. 
Let's  give  you  another  hundred." 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  think  it's  necessary  in  the  mean- 
time. If  I  want  more  I'll  call  on  you.  You're  off? 
Well,  good-bye  just  now." 

As  far  as  they  concerned  Anastasia  I  thought  a  good 
deal  over  his  words,  and  when  I  returned,  after  an 
afternoon  spent  in  buying  a  new  suit,  hat,  boots,  I 
found  her  lying  on  her  bod,  her  hundred  intact. 

When  a  woman  is  too  sick  to  spend  money  in  new 


THE  DAWN 


241 


clothes  it's  time  to  call  a  doctor.  This,  in  spite  of  her 
protestations,  I  promptly  did,  to  be  told  as  promptly 
that  she  was  a  very  sick  woman  indeed.  She  had,  said 
the  medico,  never  fully  recovered  from  her  confinement, 
and  had  been  running  down  ever  since.  For  the  pres- 
ent she  must  remain  in  bed. 

Then  he  hesitated.  "  If  your  wife  is  not  carefully 
looked  after  there  is  danger  of  her  becoming  poitri- 
naire."  i 

I  was  startled.  In  the  tension  of  literary  effort,  in 
the  egotism  of  art,  I  had  paid  little  heed  to  her.  If 
she  had  been  less  perfect,  perhaps  I  should  have  thought 
more  of  her.  But  she  just  fitted  in,  made  things 
smooth,  effaced  herself.  She  was  of  that  race  that 
make  the  best  wives  in  the  world.  The  instinct  is  im- 
planted in  them  by  long  heredity.  Anastasia  was  a 
born  wife,  just  as  she  was  a  born  mother.  Yes,  I  had 
neglected  her,  and  the  doctor  left  me  exceedingly  pensive 
and  remorseful. 

"  You  must  hurry  up  and  get  well,  child,"  I  said, 
as  she  lay  there  looking  frail  and  wistful.  "  Then  we're 
going  away  on  a  holiday.  We're  going  to  Brittany 
by  the  sea.  I'm  tireu  of  grey  days.  I  want  them  all 
blue  and  gold.  We'll  wander  down  lanes  sweet  with 
may,  and  sit  on  the  yellow  tands." 

She  listened  fondly,  as  I  painted  pictures,  growing 
ever  more  in  love  with  my  vision. 

**  Yes,  I  try  to  get  well,  queck,  just  to  please  you, 
darleen.  Excuse  me,  I  geeve  you  too  much  trooble. 
I  want  so  much  to  be  good  wife  to  you.  That  is  tho 
bestest  thing  for  me.  I  don't  want  ever  you  be  sorry 
you  marry  me.     If  you  was,  I  sink  I  die." 

Once  I  had  conceived  myself  in  the  part  of  a  nurse. 


S48 


THE  PRETENDER 


I  entered  into  it  with  patience  and  enthusiasm.  I  am 
not  lavish  in  the  display  of  affection ;  but  in  these  days 
I  was  more  tender  and  considerate  than  ever  I  had  been, 
and  Anastasia  was  duly  grateful.  So  passed  two 
weeks  —  the  daily  visits  of  the  doctor,  patient  vigils  on 
ruy  part,  hours  of  pain  and  ease  on  hers. 

In  Bohemia  it  never  rains  but  it  pours ;  so  with  cruel 
irony  in  the  face  of  my  good  fortune  other  successes 
began  to  surprise  me.  Within  two  weeks  I  had  seven  of 
my  stories  accepted,  and  the  total  revenue  from  them 
was  twelve  pounds.  I  felt  that  the  worst  of  the  fight 
was  over.  I  had  enough  now  to  carry  me  on  till  I  had 
written  another  novel.  I  need  not  do  this  pot-boiling 
work  any  more. 

Every  day  came  Helstcm  with  news  of  the  growing 
prowess  of  the  Mome.  She  was  able  to  sit  up  a  little. 
Her  legs  were  like  spindles,  and  she  could  not  walk ;  but 
she  looked  rarely  beautiful,  almost  angelic.  In  a  few 
days  he  was  going  to  get  a  chair  on  wheels,  and  take  her 
out  in  the  gardens. 

**  I  can't  make  this  out,"  I  said,  chaffingly.  «  You 
must  have  made  an  awful  hit  with  Frosine.  Why  don't 
you  marry  the  girl?" 

He  looked  startled. 

"Don't  be  absurd.  Why,  I'm  twenty  years  older 
than  she  is.  Besides,  I'm  a  cripple.  Besides,  I'm  a 
confirmed  bachelor.     Besides,  she's  a  confirmed  widow." 

**  No  young  woman's  ever  a  confirmed  widow.  Be- 
sides —  she's  no  widow." 

"  Good  Heavens !  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  Solonire 
IS — " 

"WTiy,  yes,  I  thought  you  knew.  Anyway,  ther« 
was  no  reason  to  tell  you  anything  like  that." 


THE  DAVVX 


249 


Helstern  rose  slowly.  My  information  seemed  to  be 
exceedingly  painful  to  him.  That  firm  mouth  with  its 
melancholy  twist  opened  as  if  to  speak.  Then,  with- 
out saying  a  word,  he  took  his  hat  and  went  off. 

"After  all,"  I  thought,  "why  not?  Frosine  is  as 
good  as  gold,  a  serene,  sensible  woman.  I'd  marry  her 
myself  if  I  wasn't  already  married  to  Anastasia.  I 
wonder  .  .  .*' 

Thereupon  I  started  upon  my  career  as  a  match- 
maker. Why  is  it  that  the  married  man  is  so  anxious 
to  induce  r  jrs  to  embrace  matrimony?  Is  it  a  sense 
of  duty,  a  desire  to  prevent  other  men  shirking  their 
duty?  Or  (as  no  woman  is  perfect)  is  it  a  desire  to 
see  the  flies  in  our  ointment  outnumbered  by  the  flies 
in  our  neighbour's?  Or,  as  marriage  is  a  meritorious 
compulsion  to  behave,  is  it  a  desire  to  promote  merit 
among  our  bachelor  friends  by  making  them  behave 
also?  In  any  case,  behold  me  as  a  bachelor  stalker, 
Helstern  my  first  quarry.  I  did  not  see  him  for  a  week, 
then  one  afternoon  I  came  across  him  by  the  great 
gloomy  pile  of  the  Pantheon,  gazing  at  Rodin's  statue 
of  the  Thinker. 

How  often  have  I  stood  in  front  of  it  myself!  That 
figure  fascinates  me  as  does  no  other  in  modem 
sculpture.  The  essence  of  simplicity,  it  seems  to  say 
unutterable  things.  Arms  of  sledgehammer  force,  a 
great  back  corded  with  muscle,  legs  banded  as  if  with 
iron,  could  anything  be  more  expressive  of  magnificent 
strength?  Yet,  oh,  the  pathos  of  it  —  the  small,  un- 
developed skull,  the  pose  of  perplexed,  desperate 
thought ! 

So  must  primitive  man  have  crouched  and  agonised 
in  that  first  dim  dawn  of  intelligence.     Within  that 


-i  J 


250 


THi:  PRKTENDER 


brain  of  a  child  alrt-ad}-  gliniiiicrK  the  idea  of  something 
greater  than  physical  force ;  within  that  brute  man  Mind 
is  beginning  its  supreme  struggle  over  Matter.  Here 
is  the  birth  of  brain  domination.  Here  is  the  savage, 
thwarted,  mocked,  impotent ;  yet  trying  with  every  fibre 
of  his  being  to  enter  that  world  of  thought  which  he  is 
so  conscious  of,  and  cannot  yet  understand.  Pathetic ! 
Yes,  it  typifies  the  ceaseless  struggle  of  man  from  the 
beginning,  the  agony  of  effort  b}'  v  hich  he  has  raised 
himself  from  the  mire.  Far  from  a  Newton,  a  Darwin, 
a  Goethe,  this  crude,  elementary  Thinker!  Yet,  with 
his  brain  of  a  child  as  he  struggles  for  Light,  who  shall 
say  he  is  not  in  his  way  as  great.  Salute  him!  He 
stands  for  the  cumulative  effort  of  the  race. 

Helstern  himself,  as  he  stood  there  in  his  black  cloak, 
leaning  on  his  stick  with  the  gargoyle  head,  was  no 
negligible  figure.  I  was  struck  by  a  resemblance  to  a 
great  actor,  and  the  thought  came  that  here,  but  for 
that  misshapen  foot,  was  a  tragedian  lost  to  the  world. 
This  was  strengthened  by  the  voice  of  the  man.  Hel- 
stern, in  his  deep  vil)rating  tones,  could  have  held  a 
crowd  spellbound  while  he  told  them  how  he  missed  his 
street  car. 

"  Great,"  I  said,  indicating  the  statue. 

*'  Great,  man  !  It's  a  glory  and  a  despair.  To  me  it 
represents  the  vast  striving  of  the  spirit,  and  its  impo- 
tence to  express  its  dreams.  I,  too,  think  as  greatly  as 
a  Rodin,  but  my  efforts  to  give  my  thoughts  a  form 
are  only  a  mockery  and  a  pain.  I,  too,  have  agonised 
to  do;  yet  what  am  I  confronted  with.^  —  Failure.  For 
twenty  years  I've  studied,  worked,  dreamed  of  success, 
and  to-day  I  am  as  far  as  ever  from  the  goal.  Yes, 
I  realise  my  impotence.     I  have  lived  my  life  in  vain. 


THE  DAWN 


251 


Old,  grey,  a  cripple,  a  solitary.     What  is  there  left  for 


mc  i 


He  finished  with  a  lofty  gesture. 

"  Nothing  left,"  I  said,  "  but  to  have  a  drink.     Come 


on. 


But  no.  Helstcm  reposed  on  his  dignity,  and  re- 
fusfd  to  throw  off  the  mantle  of  gloom. 

"  I  tell  you  wlmt  it  is,"  I  suggested.  "  I  think  you're 
in  love." 

'•  Bfih !  I  was  never  in  love  but  once,  and  that  was 
twenty  years  ago.  We  were  going  to  be  married.  The 
day  was  fixed.  Then  on  the  marriage  eve  she  went  to 
try  on  the  wedding  gown.  There  was  a  large  fire  in 
the  room,  and  suddenly  as  she  was  bending  before  the 
mirror  to  tie  a  riband,  the  flimsy  robe  caught  the  flame. 
In  a  moment  she  was  ablaze.  Screaming  and  panic- 
stricken  she  ran,  only  to  fall  unconscious.  After  three 
days  of  agony  she  died.  I  attended  a  funeral,  not  a 
wedding." 

I  shuddered  —  not  at  his  story,  but  because  the  in- 
cident occurred  in  my  novel.  The  Cup  and  The  Lip. 
Alas!  How  Life  plagiarizes  Fiction.  I  murmured 
huskily : 

"  Cheer  up,  old  man ! " 

He  laughed  bitterly.  "  Twenty  years !  I  might  have 
had  sons  and  daughters  grown  up  by  now.  Perhaps 
even  grandchildren  like  Solonge.  How  strange  it  seems ! 
What  a  failure  it's  all  been!  And  now  it's  too  late. 
I'm  a  weary  unloved  old  man." 

"  Oh,  rot,"  I  said.  *'  Look  here,  be  sensible.  Why 
don't  you  and  Frosine  hitch  up?  There's  a  fine,  home- 
loving  woman,  and  she  thinks  you're  a  little  tin  god.** 

"  How  d'ye  know  that  ?  "  he  demanded,  eagerly. 


25!» 


THE  PRETENDER 


"Isn't  8he  always  sajing  so  to  my  wife?"  (This 
was  a  little  exaggeration  on  my  part.)  "  I  tell  you, 
Helstern,  that  woman  adores  you.  Just  think  how 
different  that  unkempt  studio  of  yours  would  be  with 
such  a  bright  soul  to  cheer  it." 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  ask  her." 

"Why  don't  you?" 

"  Well,  to  give  you  the  truth,  old  man,  I've  been  try- 
ing to,  but  I  haven't  the  courage.  I've  got  the  frame 
of  a  lion,  Madden,  with  the  heart  of  a  mouse." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what.  If  I  go  down  and  speak  for  you 
will  you  go  through  it?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will ;  but  —  there's  no  hurry,  you  know.  To- 
morrow. .  .  ." 

"  Come  on.  No  time  like  the  present.  We'll  find  her 
at  work." 

"  Yes,  but  .  .  .  will  you  go  in  and  sound  her  first?  " 

"  Yes,  yes.  Don't  be  such  a  coward.  You  can  wait 
outside." 

He  stumped  along  beside  me  till  we  came  to  the  rue 
Mazarin,  and  I  left  him  while  I  went  to  interview  Fro- 
sine. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  she  said  gladly.  "Come  in.  It's 
early,  but  I  put  Solonge  to  bed  so  that  I  could  get  a 
lot  of  work  finished.  See!  it's  a  wedding  trousseau. 
How  is  Madame?  Is  everything  well?  Can  I  do  any- 
thing for  you?  Solonge  remembered  you  in  her  pray- 
ers.    You  may  kiss  her  if  you  like." 

"  How  lovely  she  is,"  I  said,  stooping  over  the  child. 
I  was  trying  to  think  of  some  way  in  which  to  lead  up 
to  my  subject. 

Frosine  never  left  off  working.     Once  more  she  was 


THE  DAWN 


255 


the  blight,  practical  woman,  capable  uf  fighting  fur  h«r- 
.self  in  the  struggle  of  life. 

"  How  hard  you  work!  Do  you  never  tire,  never  get 
(icspondcnt  ?  " 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  happy  laugh.  The  fine 
wrinkles  seemed  to  radiate  from  her  eyes. 

"  No;  why  should  I?  I  have  my  child.  I  am  free. 
There's  no  one  on  my  back.  You  see  I'm  proud.  I 
don't  like  any  one  over  me.  Freedom  is  a  passion  with 
me." 

"  Yes,  but  you  can't  always  work.  You  must  think 
of  the  future.     Some  day  you'll  grow  old." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  There  will  still  be  So- 
longe." 

•'  Yes,  but  you  must  think  of  her  too.  Listen  to  me, 
Miulemoisclle  Frosine.  I'm  your  friend.  I  would  likf 
to  see  you  beyond  the  need  of  such  toil  as  this..  Well,  I 
come  to  imtke  you  an  offer  of  marriage." 

She  stared  at  me. 

"  I  mean,  I  come  on  behalf  of  a  friend  of  mine.  Ho 
is  very  lonely,  and  he  wants  you  to  bi'  his  wife.  I  refer 
to  Monsieur  Helstern." 

She  continued  to  stare  as  if  ama/cd. 

"  It  is  droll  Monsieur  Helstern  caiuiot  sptak  for  him- 
self," she  said  at  last. 

"  He  has  been  trying  to,  but  —  well,  you  know  Hel- 
stern.    He's  as  shy  as  a  child." 

Her  face  changed  oddly.  The  laughter  went  out  of 
it.  Her  head  drooped,  and  she  gazed  at  her  work  in 
;in  uns'ieing  way.  She  was  silent  so  long  that  I  became 
uncomfortable.  Then  suddenly  she  looked  up,  and  her 
eyes  were  aglitter  with  tears. 


S54 


THE  PRETENDER 


'*  Listen,  my  friend.  I  want  you  to  liiHr  my  story, 
then  tell  me  if  I  ought  to  marry  Monsieur  Helstcrn. 

"  I've  got  to  go  back  many  years  —  fifteen.  My 
father  was  in  business,  and  I  was  sheltered  as  all  French 
girls  of  that  class  are.  Then  father  died,  leaving 
mother  with  scar>.  ly  a  sou.  I  had  to  work.  Well,  I 
was  expert  with  m}'  needle,  and  soon  found  employment 
with  a  dressmaker. 

"  You  know  how  it  is  with  us  when  one  has  no  dot. 
It  is  nearly  impossible  to  make  a  marriage  in  one*s  own 
class.  One  young  man  loved  me  and  wanted  to  marry 
me;  but  his  mother  would  not  hear  of  it  because  I  was 
poor.  She  had  another  girl  with  a  good  dot  picked 
out  for  him,  and  as  children  are  not  allowed  to  marry 
without  their  parents'  consent  he  became  discouraged. 
I  do  not  blame  him.  It  was  his  duty  to  marry  as  his 
mother  wished. 

"  Well,  it  was  hard  for  me.  It  was  indeed  long  be- 
fore my  smiles  came  back.  But  it  makes  no  difference 
if  one's  heart  aches ;  one  must  work.  I  went  on  working 
to  keep  a  roof  over  my  mother's  head. 

"  By  and  by  she  died  and  I  was  alone.  That  was 
not  very  cheerful.  I  had  to  live  by  myself  in  a  little 
room.  Oh !  I  was  so  lonely  and  sad !  Remember  tha^ 
I  was  not  a  girl  of  the  working  class.  I  had  been  edu- 
cated. I  could  not  bring  myself  to  marry  a  workman 
who  would  come  home  drunk  and  beat  me.  Xo,  I  pre- 
ferred to  sit  and  sew  in  my  garret.  And  the  thought 
came  to  me  that  this  was  going  to  be  my  whole  life  — 
this  garret,  this  sewing.  W^hat  a  destiny !  To  go  on 
till  I  was  old  and  worn  out ;  then  a  pauper's  grave.  My 
spirit  was  not  broken.  Can  vou  wonder  that  I  re- 
belled? 


Tin:  DAWN 


*ioo 


"When  I  was  a  littlv  gir!  I  was  always  playing 
with  my  dollies.  When  I  got  ttvo  old  for  them  I  took 
to  nursing  other  little  ones.  It  seemed  an  instinct. 
And  so,  whenever  I  thought  of  marriage  it  was  with 
thi'  idea  of  having  children  of  my  own  to  love  and  care 
tor. 

"  Imagine  me  then  with  my  hopes  of  marriage  de- 
stroyed. *0h,'  I  said.  'Is  my  life  to  be  so  b»irren? 
Am  I  to  live  like  n>any  other  women,  without  hope  or 
joy?  Surely  this  is  not  intended.  Surely  I  am  meant 
to  enjoy   happiness.' 

"  Then,"  she  went  on,  "  one  evening  I  was  standing 
hefore  a  print-shop  looking  at  some  drawings  when  a 
tall,  fair  man  stopped  to  examine  them  too.  He  was 
an  artist,  an  Englishman.  Somehow  nj  spoke  to  me, 
then  walked  with  me  as  far  as  my  home.  Well,  to  make 
my  story  short,  he  was  the  father  «)f  Solonge. 

'•  I  never  was  so  happy  as  then.  I  did  not  dream 
such  happiness  could  be.  If  I  was  sorry  for  anything 
it  was  that  my  happiness  came  in  this  way.  And  I 
knew  this  great  happiness  could  not  last.  In  time  he 
hud  to  go.  His  home,  his  mother,  called  him.  We  were 
both  very  sad,  for  we  loved  one  another.  But  what 
would  you.''  We  all  know  these  things  must  have  an 
end.      it's  the  life. 

"  The  parting  was  so  sad.  I  cried  three  days.  But 
I  told  him  he  must  go.  He  must  think  of  his  position, 
his  family.  I  was  only  a  poor  little  French  girl  who 
did  not  matter.     He  must  forget  me. 

"  I  did  not  tell  him  I  was  going  to  have  a  child 
though.  He  would  never  have  gone  then.  He  would 
have  made  me  marrv  him,  and  then  I  would  have  sjwiled 
his   career.     No,   I   said   nothing.     But,   oh,  how    the 


^lid 


THE  PRETENDER 


lliought  glowed  in  me!     At  last  I  would  have  a  child, 
iny  own. 

"  He  wanted  to  settle  money  on  me,  but  I  would  not 
have  it.  Then,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  he  went  away, 
swearing  that  he  would  come  buck.  Perhaps  he  would 
have.  I  don't  know.  He  was  killed  in  a  railway  ac- 
cident. That  is  one  reason  I  do  not  wish  to  be  re- 
minded of  artists.  He  was  a  famous  artist.  You 
would  know  his  name  if  I  told  it.  But  I  never  will.  I 
am  afraid  his  family  would  try  to  take  away  Solonge. 

"  You  see  I  have  worked  away,  and  my  garret  has 
been  full  of  sunshine.  Oh,  how  different  it  was!  I 
Ming,  I  laughed,  I  was  the  happiest  woman  in  Paris. 
I'm  not  sorry  for  anything.  I  think  I  did  right.  Now 
I've  told  you,  do  you  still  think  Monsieur  Helstern  would 
be  willing  to  marry  me?  " 

"  More  so  than  ever,"  I  said.  ♦♦  As  far  as  I  know  he 
has  pretty  much  the  same  views  as  you  have." 

"  Ho  says  so  little  to  me.  But  he  has  been  so  kind, 
so  good.  I  believe  I  owe  it  to  him  that  I  still  have  mv 
little  one." 

"  Yes,  he's  not  a  bad  old  sort.  I  don't  think  you'd 
ever  regret  it." 

"  You  may  tell  him  my  story,  then,  and  if  he  doesn't 
think  I'm  a  bad  woman  .  .  ." 

"  He'll  understand.  But  let  me  go  and  tell  him  now. 
He's  waiting  round  the  corner." 

"  Stop !  Stop !  "  she  protested.  But  I  hurried  away 
and  found  the  sculptor  seated  outside  the  nearest  caf^, 
divided  between  anxiety  and  a  glass  of  beer. 

"  It's  all  right,  old  chap,"  I  cried.  "  I've  squared  it 
all  for  you.  Now  you  must  go  right  in  and  clinch 
things." 


THE  DAWN 


257 


"  But  I'm  "not  prepared.     I  — " 

"  Come  on.  Strike  while  the  iron's  hot.  I've  just 
l)oen  getting  the  sad  story  of  her  life,  and  she  is  in  a 
sentimental  mood.     Now's  the  time." 

So  I  dragged  him  to  Frosine's  door  and  pushed  him  in. 

Then  this  was  what  I  heard,  for  Helstern's  voice  would 
alnjost  penetrate  a  steel  safe. 

"  You  know,  Mademoiselle  Frosine,  I  —  I  love  your 
daughter." 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Helstern." 

"  1  love  her  so  much  that  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you'll 
let  me  he  a  father  to  her." 

*'  Hut  do  you  love  me?  " 

*'  I  —  I  don't  know,  I've  never  thought  of  that. 
But  wi>  both  love  Solonge.     Won't  that  be  enough?  " 

'*  I  don't  know.  Let  us  wait  awhile.  Ask  me  some 
months  from  now.  Perhaps  you've  made  a  mistake.  I 
want  you  to  be  quite  sure.  If  by  then  you  find  you've 
not  made  a  mistake,  I  —  I  might  let  myself  love  you 
very  easily." 

"  You've  made  me  strangely  happy.  Everything 
seems  changed  to  me.     I  may  hope  then?" 

"  Yes." 

I  did  not  hear  any  more.  But  a  moment  after  Hel- 
stern joined  me. 

"  Oh,  Madden,  how  can  I  ever  thank  you !  You've 
made  me  the  happiest  of  men." 

Looking  back  at  the  lighted  window  we  saw  Frosine 
bent  again  over  her  work,  trying  to  make  up  for  lost 
time.  Helstern  gazed  at  the  shadow  and  I  could  scarce 
draw  him  away.     What  fools  these  lovers  be ! 


CHAPTKU   IV 

A  CHAPTIIt   THAT  mc.lSS  WKI.L  AND  FA'DS  HADLY 

"J'aimo   Paimpol  et   sa    fnlaise. 
SfMi   cliK-luT   <t    son   praiul    p.irtlon; 
J'num-   Mirtu;,!    la    I'limpoLiix- 
<}u\   iiriith-iid   ail   pays    IJrrtoii." 

It  is  Littlf  Thins  ^i"ff''"ff  as  slu-  siU  bv  tl;e  poppy 
patth  hcforo  tlit-  door.  'J'lurc  are  liim.ln  (!s  „f  poppies. 
Thvy  dunce  in  gleeful  giory  and  their  scarlet  is  so 
hnninoiis  it  seems  about  to  burst  into  flame.  Mayl)e 
the  shell-pink  in  the  girl'.s  cheeks  is  a  reflexion  of  that 
radiant  ^flow. 

'Jhe  coast  of  Brittany  dimples  as  it  smiles,  and  in  its 
most  chanuing  dimple  is  tucked  away  our  little  village. 
The  sea  has  all  the  glitter  of  crushed  gems.  It  sparkles 
in  amethyst  and  emerald;  it  glooms  to  garnet  and 
sardonyx.  There  is  a  bow  of  golden  sand,  and  the 
hill-side  is  ablaze  with  yellow  brown. 

"  Dreamhaven  "  I  call  our  house,  and  it  stands  be- 
tween the  poppies  and  the  pines.  A  house  of  Breton 
granite,  built  to  suffice  a  score  of  geiurations,  it  glim- 
mers like  some  silvery  grand-dame,  and  its  roof  is 
velvety  with  orange-coloured  moss. 

We  have  been  here  three  weeks  and  Anastasia  has 
responded  wonderfully  to  the  change.  Nothing  can 
exceed  her  delight.  She  sings  nil  day,  rivalling  the 
merle  that  waken  us  every  morning  w[th  his  flute-like 
run  of  melody. 

Dhe  loves  to  sit  in  «  corner  of  the  old  garden  whore 

i58 


BEGINS  WELL  AND  ENDS  BADLY      259 


There  she  will  knit 

•  •*  flicker  over  the 

••anting  si(h»s  and 

for  me,  I  prefer 


n  fig  tree  climbs  the  silvery  wall. 

tranquilly  and  watch  the  little  li/ 

sun-warnied   stone,   then   pause  wi 

head-like  eyes  to  peer  around.      I 

the    scented    gloom    of    the    pine    cuptjice    beyond    the 

{■iPden.      Dearly    do    I    love    the    sudden    solitude    of 

pines. 

I  have  corrected  the  proofs  of  Tom,  Dick  and  Harrt/ 
there.  I  am  relieved  to  find  the  story  goes  with  zim. 
It  is  as  light  as  a  biscuit,  and  as  easy  of  mental  diges- 
tion. I  have  sent  off  the  last  batch  of  proofs;  my  part 
is  done;  the  rest  is  Fate. 

Now  I  turn  to  my  jolly  Bretons,  so  dirty  and  devout, 
so  toilworn  and  so  tranquil.  My  old  women  have  the 
bright,  clear  eyes  of  children.  Never  have  they  woni 
hat  or  shoes,  never  left  their  native  heaths.  Yet  thev 
are  happy  —  because  it  has  never  struck  them  that 
they  are  not  happy. 

My  young  women  all  want  to  marry  sailors  so  that 
they  may  be  left  at  hame  in  tranquillity.  They  do  not 
desire  to  see  over-much  of  their  lords  and  masters,  who 
I  fear,  arc  fond  of  mixing  eau-dr-z'k  with  their  cider. 
If  they  go  to  live  in  cities  they  generally  die  of  con- 
sumption. Their  costume  is  hauntingly  Elizabethan, 
and  they  are  three  hundred  rears  behind  the  times. 


About  a  week  ago  I  had  a  curious  conversation  with 
Anastasia. 

•'Little  Thing,"  I  began,  "do  you  know  that  if  I 
like   I   can   go   away   and   marry   some   other  French 


gir 


J  »♦ 


"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  said,  somewjiat  iturtled. 


260 


THE  PRETENDER 


"I  mean  that  as   far  as   France  is  concerned   our 
marriage  doesn't  hold." 
"  Mon  Dieu!" 

"It's  all  right  by  English  law,  but  French  law 
doesn't  recognise  it." 

"  How  droll !  But  what  does  it  matter?  You  don't 
want  marry  other  French  girls.*  " 

"  No,  but  it's  interesting  to  know  that  one  can." 

"  But  me,  too.  Have  I  not  right  to  marry  some 
other  persons?  " 

"Hum!     I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  Another  thing,"  I  continued,  "  under  French  law 
man  and  wife  hold  property  in  common.  Now,  sud- 
posing  you  came  into  fortune,  I  couldn't  touch  it." 

"  Ah !  now  you  speak  for  laughing.  I  nevaire  come 
into  fortune." 

"Well,  suppose  I  come  into  a  fortune  — but  then 
that's  equally  absurd;  anyway,  I  just  wanted  to  point 
out  to  you  that  by  a  curious  vagary  of  tin  law  we  could 
repudiate  our  marriage  and  contract  others  —  in 
France." 

Anastasia  looked  very  thoughtful.  Though  I  had 
spoken  jestingly  I  might  have  known  that  with  her 
serious  imagination  she  would  take  it  gravely.  Surely 
enough,  a  few  days  after  she  brought  up  the  subject.  ' 

"  1  smk  I  like  very  much,  darleen,  if  we  get  marry 
once  more,  French  way,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  Not  at  all :  only  —  I  don't  want  to  make  a  habit 
of  it." 

"  Excuse  me,  darleen ;  and  please  I  like  it  very  much 
if  we  get  marry  in  Catolick  church." 

"  All  right.  We'll  get  married  in  Notre  Dame  this 
time." 


BEGINS  WELL  AND  ENDS  BADLY     261 


"  But  .  .  ."  Here  she  hesitntt<l  — "  zere  is  one 
trouble." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  In  France  it  is  necessaire  by  law  I  have  consent 
of  my   fazzaire  and  my  muzzairo." 

"Well,  seeing  that  they're  in  (we  hope)  heaven,  it 
won't  h'.  very  easy  to  get  it." 

"  Oh,  no  I     I  nevaire  say  my  muzzairc  is  dead." 

"  But  isn't  she."  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  not  hear  of  her  for  many 
year.  I  leave  wiz  my  fazzaire  when  I  was  leetle  girls, 
btfore  he  put  me  in  the  coin\'iit.  My  fazzaire  get 
separation  from  my  muzzaire.  She's  very  bad 
woinans.  She's  beat  my  fazzaire  very  cruel,  so's  he 
get  separation.     My  fazzaire  was  poet." 

"And  your  mother?" 

"  Oh,  jhe  was  not  at  all  chic.  She  was  what  we 
call  •  merchant  of  the  four  seasons.'  " 

"  Good  heavens !  You  don't  mean  one  of  those 
women  that  hawk  stuff  in  the  street  with  hand  har- 
rows ?  " 

Anastasia  nodded  gravely. 

I  shuddered.  Father  a  cnbaret  poet ;  mother  a 
street  pedlar  of  cabbages  and  onions.  Sa<:ri'  mud! 
Then  a  sudden  suspicion  curdled  my  blood. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  demanded,  "  xa  it  not  that  your  mother's 
name  is  Seraphine?" 

"  Yes,"   she  exclaimed,  amazedly. 

"  And  she's  a  very  big  woman  with  a  large  nose?  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  how  you  know  ?  " 

*'  Well  then,  let  me  inform  you  that  your  respected 
parent  is  at  present  doing  business  in  a  rather  flourish- 
ing way    in    the   Hallet.     She   imports   escargots   and 


S6S 


THE  PRETENDER 


wears  sovon  diamond  rings  on  one  hand.  Judging  by 
that  hanil  jilom*,  there's  n  respcctftble  prospect  of  your 
becoming  an  luiress  after  all." 

*' Sht's  !(rril)If  woman,"  said  Anastasia,  after  I  had 
cxplaint'd  my  nueting  with  iier  mother.  "I'm  afraid 
she's  make  troohlc  Shi's  hehave  very  cruel  to  my 
fazz.iire  and  slu'  not  like  me,  because  when  they  sepa- 
rate I  choose  go  wiz  heem.  She  nevaire  forgeeve  me. 
I'm  'fraid  she's  never  consent  to  our  marriage  in 
P'raiice." 

"  Wait  till  we  get  back  to  Paris  and  we'll  tackle  her." 

'*  When  we  go  hack  to  I'/iris.'  " 

"  \t  xt  week.  I  can't  afford  to  rent  the  house  after 
the  end  of  the  month." 

"  I'm  sorry  to  I'o.     I  love  it  hen." 

"  Ves,  hut  I  Kiust  get  hack  to  work  again.  We 
must  bid  our  jolly  Bretons  good-h\i."' 

We  bade  them  good-bye  this  morning;  great,  great 
grandfather  Dagorn  herding  his  cows  on  the  velvety 
dune;  Yyves  swinging  his  scythe  as  he  whisked  down 
the  heavy  crimson  clover;  Marie  stooped  over  her 
churn;  Mother  Dagoni  whose  withered  clieeks  are 
apple-bright ;  the  rosy-faci  il  children,  the  leaping 
dogs.  We  looked  our  last  on  that  golden  beach,  that 
jewelled  sea;  we  roamed  our  last  amid  the  hedges  of 
honeysuckU,  the  cherry-trees  snowed  with  blossom,  the 
stream  where  the  embattled  lilies  brandished  blades  and 
flaunted  starry  lianners.  Last  of  all,  and  with  some- 
thing very  like  sa<lness,  we  bade  good-bye  to  that  old 
house  I  called  Dreamhaven,  which  stands  between  the 
poppies  and  the  pines. 


UKGINS  WI:LL  AM)  ENDS  BADLY      263 

Back  in  VarU.  Tho  do.ir  mnny  boulevards  arc  once 
more  tmbowirtd  in  tender  green,  and  once  more  I  am 
H  (Ireainy  Luviniburger,  feeding  my  Bohemian  spar- 
rows in  tlmt  cool,  still  grove  where  gleam  the  busts  of 
Miirger  and  \<rlaine;  once  more  I  roam  the  old  streets, 
M(kiiig  the  spirit  of  the  past:  once  more  I  am  the 
ajxi^le  of  Hie  clear  laugh  and  the  jovou^  mind. 

One  of  the  first  persons  I  met  as  I  walked  down  the 
spinal  column  of  the  Quarter,  the  Bunl'  Mich',  was 
Helstern.  He  had  just  come  from  a  le(  'me  bv  Berg- 
sen  it  the  Sorbonne  and  was  indignant  because  he  had 
been  obliged  to  stand  near  the  door. 

"  Bergsen's  n  society  craze  just  now.  The  place 
was  crowded  with  wretched  women  that  couldn't  under- 
stand a  word  of  his  lecture.  They  chattered  and 
st.ired  at  one  another  through  their  lorgnettes.  One 
u  !•(  tclud  rocnttf  threw  the  ohl  man  a  bunch  of  violets." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

'•  lie  took  it  up  and  after  looking  at  it  as  if  he  didn't 
know   what   it   was   he  put   it   in   his   pocket." 

"  Well,  how's  cverv  one?  What  have  vou  been 
domg.'     Some   symbolical   group,   I    suppose.''" 

"No:  I've  decided  to  go  in  for  simple  things,  the 
simpler  the  better.  I've  done  a  little  head  and  bust 
of  Solonge  I  want  you  to  see.  I'm  rather  pleased  with 
it." 

"  All  right.     I'll  come  as  soon  as  we  get  settled." 

"Where  are  you  going  this  time?" 

"  I've  taken  u  logement  on  the  Passage  d'Enfer; 
you  know  it  —  a  right-angled  street  of  quaint  old 
houses  that  runs  into  the  Boulevard  Raspail." 

"  I  know.  I  once  lived  in  the  rue  Boissonniere. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  now.'  " 


asi 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  Another  novel,  I  suppose.  I  have  enough  money 
to  last  me  for  five  montl-s.  Just  funcy !  five  months 
to  write  and  not  worry  about  anything  at  all.  How's 
Frosine  and  the  Monie?  " 

Helstern  beamed.  Then  for  the  first  time  I  noticed 
a  remarkable  change  in  him.  No  longer  could  I  call 
him  the  "melancholy  Dane"  (he  was  really  a  Swede, 
by  the  way).  He  had  discarded  his  severe  black 
stock  for  a  polka-dot  Lavalliere,  and  he  was  actually 
wearing  a  check  suit. 

"  Come  with  us  on  Sunday.  We  are  all  going  to  St. 
Cloud." 

"I'll  ask  my  wife.     Thing's  going  all  right?" 
"  Yes,  I  think  she'll  consent  to  name  the  dav." 
"  Well,  I  congratulate  you.     And  how's  Lorrimer?  '* 
"  He  seems  to  have  taken  up  with  a  new  girl,  a  dark, 
Italian  kind  of  a  type.     I've  seen  him  with  her  at  the 
cafds.     He's  fickle  in  his  attachments." 

"  That  nmst  be  Lucretia,"  I  thought ;  and  I  con- 
gratulated myself  on  my  adroit  disentanglement. 
Then  I  felt  some  compunction  as  I  thought  of  Rou- 
gette. 

But  I  was  reassured,  for  I  saw  the  two  together  that 
very  afternoon  in  front  of  the  cafe  du  Pantheon. 
Rougette  looked  sweet  and  serene.  Whatever  might 
have  been  the  philandering  of  Lorrimer  it  had  not 
disturbed  her  Breton  phlegm.  Or,  perhaps  it  was  that 
in  her  simple  faith  she  was  incapable  of  believing  him 
a  gay  deceiver.  She  was  more  than  ever  distractingly 
pretty,  so  that,  looking  at  her,  I  could  not  imagine 
how  any  one  could  neglect  her  for  the  olive-skinned 
Lucretia. 

Lorrimer,   too,   was   the  picture  of   prosperity.      He 


BEGINS  WELL  AND  ENDS  BADLY      Ji.i.j 


wore  a  new  Norfolk  suit,  nnd  a  wide-brimmed  grey 
hut.  He  looked  more  faunescjue  and  insouciant  than 
ever,  a  being  all  ner>es  and  energy  and  indomitable 
gaiety. 

"Hullo,"  he  greeted  me;  "here's  old  Daredeath 
Dick.  Come  and  join  us.  Hougette  wants  to  hear  all 
about  her  '  pays  Breton.'  You're  looking  very  fit. 
How's  everything.*  " 

"  Excellent,  I'm  to  have  a  novel  published  next  week, 
and  I've  got  enough  money  to  follow  it  up  with  an- 
other." 

"  What  a  wonderful  chap  you  are  to  be  able  to 
spread  your  money  out  like  that !  You  know  wealth 
would  be  my  ruin.  Poverty's  my  best  friend.  Wealth 
really  worries  me.  I  never  could  work  if  I  had  lots 
of  money.  By  the  way,  you  must  see  my  picture  at 
the  Salon  des  Independents.  Hougette  and  the  Nea- 
politaine  are  in  it.     It's  creating  quite  a  sensation." 

"How  is  our  dark  friend?" 

He  shrugged  his  shouhlers  gaily.  "Just  a  little 
embarrassing  at  times.  She's  awfully  jealous  of 
Hougette.  The  other  day  in  the  studio  she  snatched 
up  a  knife,  and  I  thought  she  was  going  to  stick  it  into 
me;  but  she  only  proceeded  to  slash  up  a  picture  I 
had  done  called  The  Jolie  Bretonne,  for  which  Rougette 
had  posed.  After  that  we  had  a  fuss,  and  I  told  her 
all  was  over  between  us.  So  we  parted  in  wrath,  and 
I  haven't  spoken  to  her  since.  She  has  a  devil  of  a 
temper;  a  good  girl  to  keep  away  from." 

Poor  unsuspecting  Lorrimer!  I  felt  guilty  for  a 
moment.     Then  I  changed  the  subject. 

"  But  you're  looking  very  spruce.  Don't  tell  me 
you've  sold  a  picture." 


9«6 


THE  I»HET1:M)KR 


"  No,  l)ut  I'vi'  ^ot  a  job,  rt  »ttn(lv  job.  I'm  doing 
cartoons  every  night  at  tlic  Noctanibules.  You  must 
come  round  and  sec  nic.'* 

I  promised  I  wouhl,  and  returned  to  the  Passage 
d'Enfer,  where  Anastusi.i  was  busy  putiirig  our  new 
apartiiiirit  in  ordir.  There  was  n  bedroom,  dining- 
roouj,  and  n  kitehen,  about  the  size  of  a  parking-tiox  ; 
but  sh(  was  gnatly  pleastd  with  everything.  We  sup- 
plemented our  old  furniture  with  some  new  articles 
from  tlie  bazanrs.  A  dressing-table  of  walnut,  a  ward- 
robe with  mirror  tloors,  and  cretonne  curtains  with  a 
design  of  little  rosi-s.  Soon,  we  found  ourselves  in- 
stalled with  a  degree  of  comfort  we  had  not  hitherto 
known. 

It  was  one  evening  that  Anastasia,  who  had  been 
papering  tin-  dining-room,  retired  to  bed  (juite  early, 
that  I  (lecidnl  to  accept  Lorriiner's  invitation  and  visit 
the  Noctanibules.  This  is  a  cabaret  in  a  dark  side- 
street  that  parallels  the  "  Houl'  Mich'."  I  found  my- 
self in  a  long,  low  room  whose  walls  were  covered  with 
caricatures  of  artists  who  in  their  Bohemian  days  had 
bein  habitues  of  the  place.  There  was  an  array  of 
chairs,  a  shabby  little  platform,  and  a  piano.  As  each 
chansonuier  came  on  he  was  introduced  by  an  irre- 
pressible young  man  with  a  curly  mop  of  hair  and  merry 
eyes.  Then,  a>  the  singer  finished,  the  volatile  young 
man  called  for  three  rounds  of  hearty  appl/uise. 

The  cabaret  chanson  titers  of  Paris  arc  unique  in  their 
way.  They  are  a  connecting-link  bvtwcen  literature 
and  the  stage  —  hermaphrodites  of  the  entertaining 
world.  Tluy  write,  compose,  anci  sing  their  own  songs, 
which,  often,  not  only  liave  a  distinctive  note  that 
makis  for  art,  but  are  sung  inimitably  well.      Ex-poets, 


nr.GINS  WELL  AND  ENDS  BADLY      !i67 

stndintt  with  a  turn  for  untiric  JivcrMion,  juiimalist.4 
of  llolicmia,  all  go  to  swill  the  rankn  of  thi-sc  iiihtritors 
of  the  traditions  of  licranger.  From  that  laureate 
of  the  gutter,  Aristide  Bruant,  down  to  the  smallest  of 
them,  they  portray  with  passionate  fidelity  the  humour 
and  tragedy  of  the  street  —  irreverently  Rahelaisian 
at  one  moment,  pathetically  passionate  at  the  next. 

As  I  enter,  Marcel  Legay  is  in  the  mitlst  of  a  song 
of  fervid  patriotism.  In  spite  of  his  poetic  name,  he 
i>  a  rubicund  little  man  with  a  voice  and  the  mane  of  a 
lion.  Then  follows  Vincent  Hispy,  with  catlike  eyes 
and  droll,  caustic  wit.  Then  comes  Zavier  Privas,  big 
and  boisterous  as  the  west  wind,  lover  to  his  soul  of 
the  chamoM  he  writes  and  sings.  Finally,  with  a  stick 
of  charcoal  and  an  eager  smile,  Lorrimcr  appears.  A 
screen  is  wheeled  up  on  which  are  great  sheets  of  coarse 
paper.  The  artist  announces  that  his  first  effort  will 
f)e  Sarah  Bernhardt.  Ho  makes  about  five  lightning 
lines,  and  there  is  the  divine  Sarah.  Then  follow  in 
swift  succession  Polaire,  Dranem,  Mistinguette,  Mayol, 
and  other  lights  of  the  Paris  stage. 

And  now  the  cartoonist  turns  to  the  audience  and 
asks  them  to  name  some  one  high  in  politics.  A  voice 
shouts  Clemcnceau.  In  a  moment  the  well-known 
features  arc  on  the  board.  Poincare!  It  is  done. 
And  so  on  for  a  dozen  others.  Applause  greets  every 
new  cartoon,  and  the  artist  retires  covered  with  glory. 

"  How  did  you  like  it." "  grins  Lorrimer,  as  he  joins 
me  in  the  audience. 

"  Splcndkl !  Why,  man,  you  could  make  barrels  of 
money  in  America  doing  that  sort  of  thing.'* 

"  I'd  rath*  r  be  a  pauper  in  Paris  than  a  money- 
changer in  Chicago.     But  there's  Rougette  at  the  back 


y()M 


TIIK  PRETENDER 


of  the  .'.ill.  D.Mxi'l  slir  iiHik  sfunning.-  ThankH  to 
this  jciii,  Tvc  htiti  iihli-  to  pay  luT  for  a  ^ood  many  sit- 
tings, and  now  silt's  got  a  niw  gown  niul  liat.  By 
Jovi- !  that  girl  m  ill  \h  the  nniking  of  nic  yet.  Her  lovc- 
iiiitss  nally  inspires  me.  Nature  leaves  me  cold,  hut 
woman,  heautiful  woman! — I  could  go  on  painting  her 
etirnally  and  not  ask  for  other  reward." 

And,  indeed,  the  Breton  girl,  with  her  ash-gold  hair 
and  her  romplexion  of  roses  and  cream,  was  a  delicate 
vision  of  heauty. 

"  Never  let  a  woman  see  that  you  cannot  he  serenely 
hap{)y  without  her,*'  says  I.orrimer.  "  I'd  do  anything 
for  Hougitte  (short  of  marrying  her),  yet  I  never  let 
her  know  it.  And  so  she's  faithful  to  me.  Others 
have  tried  to  steal  her  from  me  ;  have  offered  her  luxury  ; 
l>ut  no,  she's  the  same  devoted,  unspoiled  girl.  Just 
look  at  her,  .Madden,  a  pure  lustrous  pearl.  Think 
what  a  life  sueli  a  girl  nught  have  in  this  Paris,  where 
mtn  make  ijueens  of  heautiful  women  !  What  triumphs  ! 
what  glories!  Yet  there  she  is,  content  to  follow  the 
fortunes  of  an  ohscure  painter.  But  come  on  and  join 
till'  girl.     They're  going  to  do  a  little  silhouette  drama." 

As  we  sit  hy  Rougette,  who  smiles  radiantly,  the 
lights  go  out,  and  beyond  the  stage  a  little  curtain  goes 
up,  showing  a  Hsher  cottage  in  Brittany.  The  scene  is 
»arly  morniiig,  the  sea  flooded  with  the  coral  light  of 
ilawn.  Then  across  the  face  of  the  picture  comes  the 
tiny  silhouettes  of  the  fishermen  carrying  their  nets. 
The  cottage  is  next  shown  in  the  glow  of  noon,  and, 
lastly,  hy  night,  with  the  fisher  boats  passing  over  the 
face  of  the  moon. 

'i'luii  the  scene  changes.  We  see  the  inside  of  the 
cabin        the  bed,  the  wardrobe  of  oak  and  brass,  the 


HKGINS  WKI.L  AND  KNDS  HADI.Y      269 

Rreat  stone  firi'placf,  the  ship  linn^in^  ovtr  it,  tlie  olil 
grandiiiother  sitting  by  lu  r  spiiiMing-wlutl.  To  h,r 
come  the  children  begging  f..r  n  story,  and  shi-  telN 
them  one  from  out  the  past  —  a  sf ory  of  her  y«.iith,  the 
rising  of  the  \  indee. 

All  this  is  made  clear  by  tliree  singi  rs,  who,  some- 
where in  the  darkness,  tell  it  in  swtet,  wild  strains  of 
Hreton  melody.     There  i>  a  soprano,  a  tenor,  a  bass; 
now    one   takes   up   the   story,   then   another:    then   all 
time  voices  blend  with  beautiful  effect.     And  as  they 
sing  we  see  the  tiny  silhouettes  of  the  peasants,  viviil 
and  clear-cut,  passing  across  the  face  of  the  changing 
Mene.      Those  strong,  melodious  voices  tell  of  how  the 
farmer-soldiers  rose  and  fought:  how  they  marched  in 
the   snow;   how    they   suffered:   how   they   die«l.      It    is 
sad,  sweet,  beautiful;  and  now  the  music  grows  more 
dramatic;  the  action  quickens;  the  climax  draws  near. 
And  as  I  sit  there  with  eyes  fixed  on  that  luminous 
space,  I  feel  that  something  else,  also  terrible,  is  about 
to  happen.     Surely  some  one  is  moving  in  the  darkness 
behind  us?     Even  in  that  black  silence  I  am  conscious 
of  a  shadow  blacker  still.     Surely  I  can  hear  the  sound 
of   hard,    panting   breath?     That    dreadful    breathing 
passes  me,  passes  Lorrimer,  conies  to  an  arrest  behind 
Rougettc. 

Then  I  hear  a  scream,  shriek  on  shriek,  such  as  I 
never  dreamed  within  the  gamut  of  human  agony. 
And  in  the  hush  of  panic  that  follows  the  lights  go  up. 
Rougette  is  lying  on  the  floor,  her  head  buried  in  her 
arms,  uttering  heart-rending  cries.  Lorrimer,  with  a 
face  of  absolute  horror,  is  bending  over  her,  trving  to 
raise  her  as  she  grovels  there  in  agony. 

What  is  it?     A  hundred  faces  are  turned  towards  us, 


MICROCOPY   RESOLUTION   TEST   CHART 

ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


1^ 


1.4 


2.2 
2.0 


^  APPLIED  IIVHGE 

^^  '653    Eas!    Mam    Street 

5*«S  "'Chester,    New    Vo'k         14609       u^ 

'-^  (16)    482  -  03OO  -  Phone 

^S  (^'6)    288  -  5989  -  Fox 


270 


THE  PRETENDER 


each  tlie  mask  of  terror  and  dismay.  I  will  always 
reimmlK-r  those  faces  that  suddenly  flamed  at  us  out 
of  the  dark,  all  so  difl'erent,  yet  with  the  one  awful 
expression. 

Then  I  see  a  tiny  hottle  at  my  feet.  Almost  mechani- 
cally I  stoop  and  pick  it  up;  but  I  drop  it  as  if  I  had 
been  stung.  I  fall  to  rubbing  my  fingers  in  agony, 
and  everywhere  I  rub  there  is  r.  brown  burn.  Now  T 
understand  the  poor,  writhing,  twisting  girl  on  the 
floor,  and  a  similar  shudder  of  understanding  seems 
to  convulse  the  crowd.  There  comes  a  hoarse  whisper 
— "  Vitriol!  " 

Turning  to  the  door,  I  am  just  in  time  to  see  a  girl 
in  black  make  her  escape,  an  olive-skinned  girl  with 
beetle-black  hair  and  the  eyes  of  an  odalisque.  And 
Lorrimer  h)oks  at  me  in  a  ghastly  way,  and  I  know  that 
he  too  has  seen. 


CHAPTER  V 


Tin:  GREAT  QUIETUS 

"  It's  terrible !  It's  unspeakable !  "  I  groaned,  on  aris- 
ing next  morning,  as  I  thought  of  the  events  of  the 
night  before.  "That  poor  girl,  so  good,  so  sweet! 
And  to  think  that  she  should  suffer  so  —  through  me, 
through  me." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Lorrimer 
appeared.  "It's  horrible!  It's  unthinkable!"  he 
moaned.  "  Poor  Rougette,  who  never  harmed  a  living 
soul.  And  to  think  that  I  should  have  brought  this 
calamity  upon  her." 

"  It's  my  fault,"  I  objected;  "  I  introduced  Lucretia 
to  you." 

"No,  no;  it's  my  fault,"  he  insisted.  "I  trifled 
with  the  girl's  feelings." 

"  Well,  any  way,"  I  said,  "  what  are  we  trolns  to  do 
about  it.?" 

"  I  don't  know.     What  do  you  think?  " 

"  I'd  marry  her,"  I  suggested.  "  But  I  can't,  being 
married  already." 

"  I'll  marry  her,"  cried  Lorrimer.  "  You  know,  last 
night  on  the  way  to  the  hospital,  when  I  saw  that 
leautiful  face  covered  with  those  hideous  bandages,  I 
wept  like  a  child.  She  told  me  not  to  mind.  It  was 
not  my  fault.  She  would  enter  a  convent,  become  a 
nun.  Just  fancy.  Madden,  that  lovely  face  eaten  to 
the  bone,  a  horrible  sight  ..." 

"Perhaps  it  won't  be  so  bad,  old  chap      Perhaps 


272 


THE  PRETENDER 


she's  only  burned  on  one  side ;  then  the  other  side  of 
her  face  will  still  be  beautiful." 

"  Yes,  that's  one  blessing.  I  told  her  as  they  took 
lier  away.  '  Rougette,'  I  said,  '  the  day  you  come 
out  of  the  hospital  is  the  day  of  our  marriage.  You 
must  not  think  of  anything  else.  I'll  devote  my  life 
to  you.'  Could  I  do  less,  old  man?  We  may  talk 
cynically  about  women,  but  when  it  comes  to  the 
])()int,  we're  all  ready  to  die  for  'em.  I'd  have  given 
anything  last  night  if  it  had  been  me.  It's  always  the 
innocent  that  suffer." 

"  Every  one  is  talking  of  it  this  morning,"  I  obser\-ed. 
"  It's  in  all  the  papers,  but  no  one  suspects  who  did  it. 
Are  you  going  to  tell  the  police.'" 

"  No,  how  can  I.'*  I'm  indirectly  to  blame.  But 
oil !  if  I  can  lay  my  hands  on  that  girl ! "  He  broke 
off  with  a  harsli  laugh  that  was  more  eloquent  of  venge- 
ful rage  than  any  words. 

"  Well,  cheer  up,  old  man.  I  applaud  your  action 
in  marrying  Rougette.  And  perhaps  she  won't  be  so 
terribly  disfigured  after  all." 

So  I  accompanied  Lorrimer  on  his  way  to  the  hospi- 
tal, and  we  were  going  down  the  Boul'  Mich'  when  sud- 
denly he  turned. 

"  Let  me  leave  you  now.  Here's  that  blithering  lit- 
tle Bebcrosc  coming  to  buttonhole  me  and  tell  me  of 
his  love  affairs.  I'm  not  in  a  fit  state  to  listen  at 
present.     You  just  talk  to  him,  will  you?" 

So  I  was  left  to  interview  Monsieur  B^berose  whom  I 
had  met  once  or  twice  in  his  capacity  as  art  patron, 
and  the  proud  purchaser  (for  an  absurdly  small  price) 
of  one  of  Lorriiner's  masterpieces.  Monsieur  Beberose 
is  a  rrtircd  manufacturer  of  Aries  sausages,  a  man  of 


THE  GREAT  QUIETUS  273 

fifty,  and  reputed  to  be  wealthy.  lie  is  a  little,  over- 
h'tl  man,  not  unremotely  resembling  the  animal  from 
whose  succulence  his  money  has  been  made.  Besides 
the  crimson  button  of  the  Legion,  he  wears  as  a  watch- 
charm  a  large  gall-stone  that  had  been  extracted  from 
him  by  a  skilful  surgeon.  On  the  fore-front  of  his 
head  is  a  faint  fringe  of  hair,  trimmed  and  parted  like 
an  incipient  moustache ;  otherwise  his  skull  would  make 
an  excellent  skating-rink  for  the  flies.  Add  to  this 
that  he  is  a  widower,  on  the  look-out  for  a  second 
wife. 

"Well,"  I  hailed  him,  "you're  not  married  yet."" 
^^  Monsieur  Beberose  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
"  No,  things  do  not  march  at  present.  You  remember 
I  told  you  about  Mademoiselle  Juliette.  Well,  J  like 
that  girl  very  much.  I  have  known  her  since  she  was 
a  baby.  I  think  I  like  to  marry  her.  So  I  ask  the 
mother.  Well,  she  put  me  ofF.  She  say  she  decide  in 
a  week.  Then  in  a  week  I  go  back  and  she  tell  me  that 
she  think  Mademoiselle  Juliette  too  young  to  marry  me 
but  she  have  a  girl  friend.  Mademoiselle  Lucille,  who 
want  to  get  married.  Perhaps  I  would  be  pleased  with 
the  friend." 

Here  Monsieur  Beberose  siglied  deeply. 

"Well,  she  introduce  me  to  Mademoiselle  Lucille, 
and  I  give  them  all  a  dinner  at  Champeaux !  It  cost 
nic  over  one  hundred  francs,  that  dinner.  The  way 
the  mother  of  Mademoiselle  Juliette  drink  champagne 
make  me  afraid  for  her.  J  am  pleased  with  Made- 
moiselle Lucille  very  well,  and  I  think  I  like  to  marry 
her.  So  I  tell  the  mother  if  the  girl,  who  is  orphan, 
IS  willing,  it  goes  with  me,  and  she  says  she  will  speak 
with  the  girl  and  advise  her." 


274 


THE  pri:tendeii 


Here  Monsieur  Beberose  began   to  get  indignant. 

"  So  in  a  week  I  go  back  and  say  to  the  niotlier  of 
Mademoiselle  Juliette.  '  Well,  liow  docs  it  go  with 
Mademoiselle  Lucille?'     She  shrug  her  shoulders. 

"  *  Lucille  !  Oh,  yes  :  I  have  never  asked  her.  Fve 
been  thinking  it  over,  and  I  think  I'll  give  you  Juliette 
after  all.' 

"  Well,  I  like  Lucille  best  now,  but  I  like  Juliette,  too, 
so  I  say :  '  Very  well,  Madame,  it  goes  with  me.  When 
may  I  have  tlie  pleasure  of  taking  to  the  theatre  my 
fiancee  ? ' 

"  But  ^ladame  say  it  is  not  conxcnahlc  if  I  go  out 
alone  with  her  daughter.  She  must  accompany  us. 
So  when  we  go  to  the  theatre  she  sit  between  us;  when 
we  have  dinner  she  watch  me  all  the  time.  Indeed,  I 
have  not  been  able  to  have  one  word  in  private  with 
Mademoiselle  Juliette.  Perhaps  I  am  not  reasonable; 
but  I  think  I  ought  to  find  out  liow  she  feels  towards 
me  before  I  become  fiance.  I  think  marriage  is  better 
if  there  is  a  little  affection  with  it,  don't  you.''  " 

"  Yes,  it's  preferable,  I  think." 

"  Of  course,  I  know  Juliette  will  obey  her  mother 
and  marry  me ;  but  me,  I  do  not  like  the  way  they 
treat  me  about  Lucille.  Am  I  like  a  sheep  that  they 
shall  pull  about?  Besides,  Juliette  is  so  young  —  just 
nineteen.  It  might  be  better  if  I  find  some  nice  young 
widow  with  a  little  money,  don't  you  think?" 

I  agreed  with  him  that  the  matter  was  worthy  of 
serious  consideration,  and  that  the  hdle-viirc  was  likely 
to  be  a  disturbing  factor  in  his  domestic  equation.  So, 
solenuily  warning  him  to  be  careful,  I  left  him  more 
in  doubt  than  before. 

When  I  reached  home  Anastasia  was  awaiting  me. 


THE  GREAT  QUIETUS 


275 


"  Well,  darlccn,  what  is  it  that  you  have  of  news 
ahout  Rougette?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Lorrimcr  thinks  she'll  have  a  mask 
down  one  side  of  her  face.  He  swears  he's  going  to 
marry  her  though.  Fancy  "  (  I  shuddered)  "  marrying 
a  medallion.  Now,  there's  a  dramatic  situation  for 
you.  Handsome,  romantic,  young  artist  —  wife,  su- 
premely beautiful  to  port,  a  hideous  mask  to  starboard. 
His  increasing  love  of  the  beautiful  side,  his  growing 
Iiorror  of  the  other.  His  guilty  knowledge  that  he  is 
himself  responsible  for  the  disfigurement  .  .  .  why! 
what  a  stunning  story  it  would  make,  and  what  a  tragic 
denouement!  How  mean  of  life  to  steal  so  brazenly 
the  material  of  fiction!" 

"  Poor,  poor  girl,"  sighed  Anastasia.  "  I  must  go 
to  the  hospital  and  see  her  this  afternoon.  And  I  too 
I  have  some  news  for  vou." 

"Not  bad,  I  hope?'" 

"Xo,  I  sink  you  arc  please.  It  is  that  Monsieur 
Helstern  have  call.  He  was  so  funny,  so  shy,  so  glad 
about  somesing.  Well,  what  you  sink.'  He  and 
Frosine  get  marry  very  soon  and  want  you  to  be  wit- 
ness." 

"Good!  It'll  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  the 
old  chap." 

"  Yes,  he  seem  very  happy  —  quite  different." 
"  Funny,"  I  remarked,  "  how  every  one's  thoughts 
seem  turning  to  marriage.  It  must  be  epidemic. 
There's  Helstern  and  Frosine.  Here's  Lorrimcr  say- 
ing he'll  marry  Rougette;  and  this  morning.  Monsieur 
Beberose.  By  Jove!  and  weren't  we  talking  about  it 
too!  Ah,  there's  an  idea!  Why  shouldn't  we  have 
our  second  marriage  at  the  same  time  as  Helstern  and 


276 


THE  PRETENDER 


Lorrimer  get  tied  up?  You  see  four  witnesses  are 
needed  at  the  cereinon}',  two  male  and  two  female. 
We  can  act  as  one  another's  witnesses  as  well  as  get 
married  ourselves.  And  just  think  of  the  money  we'll 
save  on  tlie  carriages  and  the  supper!  Talk  of  killing 
three  birds  with  one  stone!" 

"  We  must  get  my  mother's  consentement  first." 

"  Ah,  yes,  my  belligerent  belle-mire.  Well,  we'll  go 
and  interview  her  to-morrow." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Anastasia,  blanching  at  the  pros- 
pect. 

"  You  nnistn't  be,"  I  said  bravel}' :  "  you  have  me 
to  protect  you.     Remember  you're  my  wife." 

"  Not  by  French  law.  But  I  will  go  with  you,  dar- 
ken.    I  know  you  are  strong." 

She  looked  at  me  with  undisguised  admiration.  I 
think  that  Anastasia  really  thinks  I  am  a  hero. 

In  the  afternoon  she  returned  from  the  hospital  with 
cheering  news.  It  was  not  going  so  badly  with 
Rougette  after  all.  She  had  had  a  wonderful  escape. 
A  great  deal  of  the  acid  had  lodged  in  her  veil,  and 
what  she  had  got  began  a  little  below  the  left  ear. 
Her  neck  and  breast  were  burned  badly,  and  she  was 
suffering  agony,  but  her  beauty  had  been  spared.  By 
wearing  collars  of  an  extra  height  scarcely  any  one 
would  suspect. 

"  Monsieur  Lorrimer  was  there  too.  Hc*s  so  change. 
I  nevairc  see  a  man  so  serious.  Truly,  I  sink  he  mean 
marry  Rougette  all   right." 

Next  morning,  bright  and  early,  we  sallied  forth  to 
tackle  the  redoubtable  Madame  Seraphine.  After  re- 
connoitring cautiously  we  located  her  in  her  stall  in 


THE  GREAT  QUIETUS  277 

tlie  fish  pavilion  throned  high  amid  licr  crates  of  e$car- 
gots.  As  with  beating  hearts  we  approached  we  heard 
her  voice  in  angry  argot  berating  a  meek  wisp  of  a 
porter.  Against  the  grey  of  her  surroundings  her  face 
loomed  huge  and  ruddy,  and  her  eyes  had  the  hard 
brightness  of  a  hawk's.  Again  I  wondered  how  she 
could  ever  have  been  the  mother  of  my  gentle  Anas- 
tasia.  , 

"Your  father  must  have  been  the  most  angelic  of 
little  men,"  I  murmured. 

"  He  was,"  she  answered  breathlessly. 

I*  You'd  better  go  first,"  I  suggested  nervously. 

"  No,  you,"  she  protested,  trying  to  get  behind  me. 

"  But  you've  got  to  introduce  me,"  I  objected,  trv- 
ing  to  get  behind  her. 

Then  while  we  were  rotating  round  each  other  sud- 
denly the  eyes  of  my  belle-mere  fell  on  us,  and  as  they 
dwelt  on  Anastasia  her  mouth  grew  grimmer,  and  her 
nose  more  aggressive.  Her  whole  manner  bristled 
with  pugnacity. 

''  Tiens!     Tiens!  if  it  isn't,  of  all  the  world,  my  little 

Tasie." 

Anastasia  went  forward  meekly;  I  followed  sheep- 
ishly. 

"  Yes,  Menu',"  she  said ;  "  I've  come  to  visit  you." 
The  majestic  woman  relaxed  not,  nor  did  she  make 

any  motion  to  embrace  her  shrinking  offspring. 

"  Well,"  she   said,  after  a  long,  severe   silence,  "  I 

imagine  that  it  is  not  all  for  pleasure  you  come  to  see 

your  poor  old  mother.     What  is  it.''"' 

"  .Alcme,  I  want  to  present  to  you  my  husband." 
Here   I  bowed   impressively.     The  big  woman   with 


278 


THE  PRETENDER 


tlu'  folded  arms  shifted  her  gaze  to  nic.  It  was  a 
seiirdiirig,  sneering,  almost  derisive  gaze,  and  I  hated 
her  on  the  spot. 

"So!"  she  saifl,  more  grimly  than  ever,  "and  how 
is  it  you  can  get  married  without  your  mother's  con- 
sent, if  you  please?" 

"  We  were  married  in  England,  Madame,"  I  said 
politely :  "  hut  now  we  want  to  get  married  in  France 
as  well,  and  we  are  come  to  ask  your  consent." 

"  Ah ! "  she  said  sharply ;  "  you  are  not  really  mar- 
ried then.  And  what  if  I  refuse  my  consent?  I  do 
not  know  you,  young  man.  How  do  I  know  if  you  are 
a  fit  husl)and  for  my  precious  little  cabbage?  Are 
you  rich  ?  " 

«  No." 

"Are  you  a  Catholic?" 

"  No."" 

"  Not  rich !  Not  a  Catholic !  And  this  man  ex- 
pects me  to  let  him  marry  my  little  chicken,  I  who  am 
so  good  .vith  the  church  and  can  afford  to  give  her  a 
handsome  dot.     What  is  your  business?" 

"  I  am  a  writer." 

"  Qiul  ton  pet!  Just  the  same  as  her  worthless 
father,  only  he  was  worse  —  a  poet.  No,  young  man, 
I  think  I  would  prefer  a  different  kind  of  husband  for 
my  sweet  lamb." 

"  1  won't  marry  any  one  else,  Meme." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  girl !  Do  I  not  know  my  duty 
as  a  mother?     You'll  marry  whom  I  choose." 

"Then  you  refuse  to  give  your  consent?"  I  said 
with  some  heat. 

Her  manner  changed  cunningly. 

"  I  do  not  say  that.     All  I  desire  is  to  know  you 


THE  GREAT  QUIETUS 


279 


better.  Will  you  come  and  have  dinner  with  me  some 
Sunday  evening.'  " 

After  all,  she  was  my  helle-mirc.  I  consented,  and 
Ana>tasia  seemed  relieved.  She  promised  to  write  and 
give  us  a  date.  Then  I  shook  hands  with  her;  An- 
a^tii>ia  pecked  at  her  in  the  French  fashion,  and  there 
wa>,  to  some  appearance,  a  little  family  reconciliation. 

"  Perhaps  the  old  lady's  not  so  had,  after  all,"  I 
suggested;  but  Anastasia  was  sceptical. 

"  I  do  not  trust  her.  She  have  some  ruse.  We 
must  wait  and  see." 

That  was  a  memorable  day;  for  on  reaching  home 
I  felt  the  sudden  spur  of  inspiration,  and  sitting  down 
before  the  ranjshackle  typewriter,  1  headed  up  a  clean 
sheet : 

THE  GREAT  QUIETUS 

A  Novel 

"  The  scene  is  on  the  top  of  a  peak  that  overlooks  a 
vast  plain.  A  majestic  old  man,  bearded  even  as  the  propii- 
ets,  stands  there  looking  at  the  Western  sky  which  the  set- 
ting sun  has  turned  into  an  ocean  of  gold.  Island  beyond 
island  of  cloud  swmis  in  that  amber  sea,  each  coral  tinted 
and  fringed  with  crimson  foam.  And  as  he  gazes,  the 
splendid  old  man  is  magnificently  happy;  for  is  he  not 
the  last  man  left  alive  on  this  bad,  sad  earth,  and  is  he 
not  about  to  close  his  eyes  on  it  forever.^ 

"In  the  twenty-first  century,  luxury  and  wickedness 
had  increased  to  such  an  extent  that  the  whole  world  be- 
came decadent.  The  art  of  flying,  brought  to  such  per- 
fection that  all  travelled  by  the  air,  had  annihilated  space, 
and  the  world  had  become  very  small  indeed.  Instead  of 
Switzerland,  people  went  for  a  week-end  skiing  to  the 
Pull-;   the   unexplored   places   were   Baedekerizcd,  and   the 


ieso 


THE  PllETENDEIl 


wild  creatures  that  formerly  roamed  their  valleys  relegated 
to  the  alleys  of  zoological  gardens. 

"Behold  then,  a  familiar  world,  shorn  of  all  mystery; 
a  tamed  world,  Lnrncssed  to  the  will  of  man;  a  sybaritic 
world,  starrid  with  splendid  cities  and  caparisoned  with 
limitless  luxury.  Its  population  had  increased  a  thousand 
fold;  its  old  religions  were  outgrown;  its  moral  ideas  en- 
gulfed in  a  general  welter  of  cynicism  and  sensuality. 

"  And  out  of  this  dung-heap  of  degeneracy  there  arises 
a  sect  of  pessimists  who  declare  that  human  nature  is  in- 
nately bad;  that  under  conditions  of  inordinate  luxury, 
when  the  most  exquisite  refinements  are  within  the  reach 
of  the  poorest,  conditions  of  idleness,  when  all  the  work 
of  man  is  done  by  machinery,  it  is  impossible  for  virtue 
to  flourish.  War,  struggle,  rigorous  conditions  make  for 
moral  vigour.  Peace,  security,  enervating  conditions  result 
in  weakness.  The  blessings  that  increase  of  knowledge 
had  heaped  on  man  were  in  their  very  plenitude  proving  a 
curse.  But  alas!  it  was  too  late.  Never  could  man  go 
back  to  the  old  life  of  virility.  There  was  only  one 
remedy.  It  was  so  easy.  Even  as  far  back  as  the  be- 
nighted nineteenth  century  philosophers  had  pointed  it 
out:  let  every  one  cease  to  have  children.  Let  the  race 
become  extinct. 

"  For  one  hundred  years  had  the  promulgation  of  this 
doctrine  gone  on.  From  their  very  cradles  the  children 
had  been  trained  to  the  idea  that  parenthood  was  shameful, 
was  criminal,  was  a  sin  against  the  race.  The  highest 
moral  duty  of  a  couple  was  to  die  without  issue.  The 
doctrine  was  easy  of  dissemination;  for  even  to  the  re- 
motest parts  of  the  earth  all  men  were  highly  educated; 
all  nations  were  gathered  in  world  commonwealth  with  a 
world  language. 

"  But  accidents  will  happen ;  and  it  had  taken  a  cen- 
tury to  reduce  the  population  of  the  world  down  to  a  mere 
handful.     For  a  score  of  years  all  children  born  had  been 


THE  gui:at  quietus 


S81 


suppressed  nnd  now,  ns  fnr  as  was  known,  only  a  do/cn 
people  remained.  On  a  pivt  n  day  tlirse  had  sworn  to  par- 
take of  a  drug  that  v.otild  ensure  them  a  painless  and 
pleasant  death.  That  day  was  past;  there  only  remained 
the  chief  priest  to  close  the  account  of  humanity. 

"  He  too  held  the  drug  that  meant  his  release,  and  as 
he  gazed  his  last  on  a  depopulated  world  his  heart  was  full 
of  exultation.  He  cursed  it,  this  iniquitous  earth,  where 
poor,  weak  man  had  been  flung  to  serve  his  martyrdom. 
Well,  man  had  outwitted  nature;  mind  had  triumphed  over 
matter.      Now  the  end.  .   .  . 

"  And  raising  the  fatal  drug  to  his  lips  the  last  man 
drained  it  to  the  dregs." 

Here  ended  my  prologue :  now  the  story. 


"  A  poor  woman,  feeling  the  life  stir  within  her,  and 
loving  it  in  spite  of  their  teaching,  had  crawled  away  and 
hid  in  the  depths  of  a  forest.  There  she  had  given  birth 
to  a  man-child;  but,  knowing  that  Iier  boy  would  be  killed, 
this  woman-rebel  lurked  in  the  forest,  living  on  its  fruits 
and  the  milk  of  its  deer.  Then  at  last  she  ventured  to 
leave  her  child  and  revisit  the  world.  Lo!  she  found  that 
the  day  of  the  Great  Quietus  has  passed;  there  was  no 
more  human  life  on  the  earth.  So  she  returned  to  the 
forest  and  soon  she  too  perished. 

"  The  boy  Hirived  wonderously.  His  mother  had  told 
him  that  he  was  the  one  human  being  on  the  planet.  He 
had  lived  in  a  cave  and  fed  of  the  simple  fruits  of  the 
earth,  so  that  he  grew  to  be  a  young  god  of  the  wild-wood. 
But  he  was  curious.  He  wanted  to  see  the  wonderful, 
wicked  world  of  which  his  mother  had  told  him  so  much. 
So  he  set  out  on  his  travels. 

"  Like  a  superb  young  savage  he  tramped  through 
Europe.  He  tamed  a  horse  to  bear  him:  he  explored  the 
ruins  of  great  cities  —  Vienna,  Paris,  Berlin.     In  the  ivy- 


Tin:  PHKTENDElt 


grown  palaces  and  tlie  wccd-stifled  courts  of  kings  lie  killed 
lions  and  tigers;  for  all  the  wild  animals  had  escaped  from 
the  menageries  and  had  reverted  to  a  savage  state.  He 
ached  to  know  something  of  the  histories  of  these  places; 
but  he  could  not  read,  and  all  was  meaningless  to  him. 

"  He  discovered  how  to  use  a  boat,  and  in  his  experi- 
ments lie  was  blown  across  the  channel  to  Britain.  Then 
one  day  he  lit  a  Iwnfire  amid  the  ruins  of  London.  Noth- 
ing in  the  world  but  ruin,  ruin. 

"  He  was  as  one  at  the  birth  of  things  for  he  understood 
nothing.  He  knew  of  fire  and  knives,  but  not  of  wheels. 
He  was  a  i)rimitive  man  in  a  world  th.it  has  perished  of 
super-civilisation.  Yet  as  he  cowered  by  his  fire  in  the 
centre  of  Trafalgar  Square  the  vast  silence  of  it  all 
weighed  him  down,  and  he  felt  oh  I  so  lonely.  He  caressed 
the  dogs  he  had  trained  to  follow  and  love  him.  His 
mother  had  been  the  only  human  being  he  had  ever  seen 
and  she  had  died  when  he  was  so  young.  His  memory 
of  her  was  vague,  but  he  could  imagine  no  one  different. 
He  knew  nothing  of  sex.  only  that  vast  consuming  loneli- 
ness, those  haunting  desires  he  could  not  understand. 

"  Then  as  he  sat  there  brooding,  into  his  life  there  came 
the  woman  —  a  girl.  Where  she  came  from  he  never 
knew.  Probably  like  himself  she  was  a  deserted  child, 
and  like  him  she,  too,  was  a  child  of  nature,  superb, 
virile,  unspoiled.  She  had  tamed  two  leopards  to  de- 
fend her,  and  she  Mas  clad  in  the  skin  of  another.  With 
her  leopards  she  saved  his  life,  just  as  he  was  about  to  fall 
in  batlle  against  a  pack  of  wolves. 

"Their  meeting  was  a  wondrous  idyll;  their  love  an 
idyll  still  more  wonderful.  There  in  the  lovely  Kentish 
woodland  they  roamed,  a  new  Adam  and  a  new  Eve.  Then 
to  them  in  that  fresh  and  glowing  world,  glad  as  at  the 
birth  of  things,  a  child  was  born. 

"  And  here  we  leave  them  standing  on  a  peak  that  over- 
looks   a   beautiful   plain,   in   the   glory   of  t!ie   rising  sun. 


THE  GREAT  QUIETUS 


283 


The  world  rejoices;  the  sky  is  full  of  song;  the  air  is 
a-thrill  with  fate.  There  they  stand  h.ithed  in  that  yellow 
glow  and  hold  aloft  their  child,  the  beginners  of  a  new 
race,  a  primal  pair  in  a  primal  world. 

"  For  nature  is  stronger  than  man,  and  the  Master  of 
Destiny  is  invincible." 

*#♦♦•*♦ 

I  was  pounding  away  at  my  typewriter  one  morning, 
and  Anastasia  was  out  on  a  marketing  expedition, 
when  there  came  a  violent  knocking  at  my  door.  As 
I  opened^ it  Lorrimer  almost  fell  into  my  arms.  He 
was  ghastly  and  seemed  about  to  faint.  Staggering 
to  the  nearest  chair  he  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

Me  only  groaned. 

"  Heavens,  man !  tell  me  what's  wrong." 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  at  me  with  wild  staring  eyes. 

"Don't  touch  me,  Madden;  I'm  accursed.  Don't 
M  u  see  the  brand  of  Cain  on  me.?  I'm  a  murderer! 
Oh,  God!  a  murderer." 

He  rocked  up  and  down,  sobbing  convulsively. 

"What  have  you  done.?"  I  cried,  horrified.  "Tell 
me  quick." 

"I've  killed  her,"  he  panted;  "I've  killed  Lucretia. 
She's  dead  now,  dead  in  my  studio.  I'm  on  my  way 
to  give  myself  up  to  the  police." 

"Killed  Lucretia?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it.  I  was  mad  for 
revenge.  I  had  her  at  my  mercy.  I  thought  of  poor 
Rougette.  Her  moans  have  haunted  me  night  and 
day.  They've  almost  driven  me  mad.  I  can't  blot  out 
the  memory  of  that  poor,  bandaged  face.  Then  when 
I  saw   that   female   devil  before   me   something  seemed 


284 


THE  PRETENDER 


to  snap  in  niv  hrain.  So  I've  killed  her.  Now  I'm 
sorry ;  l)ut  it's  too  late,  too  late." 

"  Don't  take  it  so  badly,  old  cliap.  Xohody  ever 
gets  punished  for  murder  in  France.  They'lf  bring 
in  a  verdict  of  crime  passtonnd,  and  you'll  be  acquitted. 
But  tell  me,  quick.      What's  happened?  " 

He  went  on  in  that  broken,  excited  way. 

"  She  did  not  know  we  had  seen  her  that  night. 
She  came  to  me  with  the  most  brazen  effrontery.  Pre- 
tended to  sympathise  with  Rougette;  wanted  me  to  take 
her  back  as  a  model.  That  was  what  maddened  me, 
the  smiling,  damned  hypocrisy  of  her.  Oh!  devil! 
<levil !  " 

"Go  on,  quick;  what  did  you  do?" 

"I  told  htr  I  was  going  to  paint  a  picture  of 
Mazeppa  and  wanted  her  to  pose  for  me." 

"  But  Mazeppa  wasn't  a  femah'." 

''  She  doesn't  know  that.  Well,  on  impulse  I  posed 
her  on  that  dunnny  horse  I  have,  and  I  bound  her 
to  its  back  with  straps,  bound  her  so  strongly  she 
could  not  move  a  muscle.  She  submitted  till  I  had 
pulled  the  last  buckle,  then  she  got  alarmed,  but  I 
snapped  a  gag  in  her  mouth  before  she  could  scream." 

"Yes,  yes,  and  then?" 

Lorrimer  drew  a  long,  shuddering  breath. 

"And  then,  Madden,  I  — I  varnished  her." 

"  Varnislied  her?  " 

"  Ves.  You  sec  I  read  it  in  Pithi/  Paragraphs,  an 
advertisement  for  Silkolinc  Soap.  It  began:  'No 
})orson  covered  with  a  coating  of  varnish  could  live 
for  more  than  half  an  hour.'  That  gave  me  the  idea. 
It  closes  all  the  pores,  you  see.  Well,  there  she  was 
at    my   mercy.     There   was   a   pot   of   shellac   varnish 


THE  GREAT  QUIETUS 


285 


handy-  In  a  few  minutes  it  was  done.  From  toe  to 
top  I  varnished  her.  Then  threw  a  sheet  over  her. 
And  now  .  .  ." 

"  Good  Heavens !     How  long  ago?  " 

"  I've  come   straight  here." 

"  Wait,  man ;  perhaps  it's  not  too  late  yet.  Per- 
haps —  stay  here  till  I  get  back." 

I  leapt  down  the  stairs;  caught  a  taxi  that  was 
passing,  shouted  the  number  of  the  house  and  street, 
adding  that  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death ;  leaped 
out  before  the  taxi  came  to  a  stand ;  called  to  the 
concierge  to  follow  me,  and  burst  into  Lorrimer's 
studio.  Not  a  moment  too  soon.  The  girl  was  in  a 
dead  faint,  and  it  seemed  as  if  every  breath  would  bo 
her  last.  In  feverish  hasto  I  directed  the  concierge  to 
unstrap  her  and  wrap  her  up;  then,  carrying  her  down- 
stairs, we  lifted  her  into  the  taxi. 

"The  baths!"  I  cried  to  the  chauffeur.  "The 
baths  behind  the  Closerie  de  Liias.  And  hurry,  for 
Heaven's  sake!     A  life's  at  stake." 

In  a  few  minutes  we  were  there,  and  a  nurse  had  the 
girl,  who  had  now  recovered  consciousness,  in  a  hot  bath. 
Then  for  an  hour  of  throbbing  suspense,  with  aching 
muscles  and  dripping  brows  they  fought  for  her  life. 
As  valiantly  as  ever  hero  fought  with  sword  and  shield 
they  fought  with  soap  and  soda.  In  the  end  the  nurse 
triumphed.  Her  skin  was  considerably  damaged  but 
I.ucretia  was  saved. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  SHADOW  OF  SUCCESS 

I  WAS  killing  my  chief  priest  in  a  blaze  of  glory  wlien 
Anastasia  invaded  the  room  that  between  meals  is  called 
my  bureau,  at  meals  the  sallc-a-matigcr,  in  the  evening 
the  salon. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,"  I  cried ;  "  I'm  at  a  critical 
point." 

With  which  I  ran  my  fingers  through  my  hair,  took 
hold  of  my  teeming  skull  with  both  hands,  and  glared 
fiercely  at  the  blank  sheet  of  paper  in  my  typewriter. 
With  a  look  almost  of  awe  the  wife  of  the  great  author 
tip-toed  out  again. 

About  an  hour  after,  having  duly  been  delivered  of 
my  great  thoughts,  I  rejoined  her.  "  W^hat  is  it.?  "  I 
asked  kindly. 

"  Oh,  darken,  I  have  letter  from  my  muzzer.  She 
want  us  have  dinner  on  Sunday.     What  must  I  say.'" 

"  Say  yes,  of  course.  The  old  lady  wants  to  give  us 
her  consent  and  her  blessing.  Incidentally,  a  hand- 
some (lot  for  you.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  she'd  taken 
a  shine  to  me  after  all." 

"  Any  one  take  shine  to  such  lovely  sing  like  you, 
darlei  n  :  but  I  don't  know  about  my  muzzaire.  Well, 
I  write  and  tell  her  we  come.  Oh,  and  anuzzer  sing, 
I  have  seen  Rougette  this  morning.  She  look  so  happy. 
She  have  come  out  of  the  hopital,  and  she  tell  me 
she  get  married  with  Monsieur  Lorrimer,  July.     You 


THE  SHADOW  OF  SUCCESS 


^87 


ncvairc  knew  she  have  been  burn.     It  is  all  down  her 
ntc'k  and  shoulder.     You  cannot  see." 

"  Vm  so  glad.  They  say  beauty  is  only  skin-deep, 
but  it's  deep  enough  to  change  the  destiny  of  nations. 
Who  would  not  rather  be  bom  beautiful  than  good? 
Why  was  I  not  born  beautiful.'"' 

"You  are,  darken.  You  are  just  beautiful,  and 
what  is  better,  you  are  great  writer." 

(I'm  afraid  Anastasia  sees  n-c  with  the  eyes  of  pos- 
terity.) 

"Well,  now,"  I  went  on,  "I  must  try  and  bring 
off  that  triangular  marriage  scheme  of  mine.  We'll 
fix  it  all  up  with  my  bclle-mcre  on  Sunday,  and  in  the 
meantime  I'll  go  out  and  see  the  others." 

So  I  set  forth  in  high  spirits.  Everything  was  go- 
ing beautifully  it  seemed;  and  when  a  few  moments  later 
I  happened  on  Monsieur  Beberose  issuing  from  his 
apartment,  I  beamed  on  him,  and  he  beamed  in  return. 
He  was  dressed  with  more  care  than  usual;  a  hemi- 
spherical figure  in  a  frock  coat  and  tall  hat.  He  was 
anxiously  trying  to  get  a  new  pair  of  lavender  kid 
gloves  on  his  podgy  hands  without  splitting  them,  and 
the  imperial  that  gave  distinction  to  his  series  of  crisp 
chins  had  been  trimmed  and  brilliantined.  Plainly 
Monsieur  Beberose  had  dressed  for  no  ordinary  occa- 
sion, and  chafl^ingly  I  told  him  so. 

"  Ah,  no !  Ah,  no ! "  he  adnn'tted  coyly.  "  I  go 
to  give  a  dejeuner  to  my  future  belle-mere  at  the  Cafe 
Anglais." 

"Ha!     Who  is  it.?     Juliette  or  Lucille.'' " 
"  Oh,  neither,"  he  said,  with  the  archness  of  a  baby 
elephant.     "It  is  a  new  one.     I  think  I  will  be  satis- 
fied this  time." 


ilHH 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  Is  she  a  widow?  " 

"  No:  but  her  mother  is;  and  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"Is  she  pretty?" 

"Pretty;  only  twenty  and  with  some  money." 

"Ah!  young,  charming  and  with  a  comfortable  dot; 
what  could  be  more  deliglitful?  Allow  me  to  congratu- 
late you,  my  friend.     How  you  must  dream  of  her!  " 

"  Truly,  yes ;  day  and  night.  She  is  adorable.  She 
melts  in  the  mouth." 

"  What  a  lucky  dog  you  arc !     I'm  dying  to  see  her." 

"  But  I  have  not  seen  her  myself  yet.  I  have  just 
seen  the  mother.  Ah!  I  will  have  that  pleasure  in  a 
few  days  though.  Then  it  is  she  return  from  the 
friend  with  whom  she  is  visiting." 

"Well,  I  wish  you  luck.  I  hope  your  troubles  are 
at  an  end." 

How  pleasant  it  was,  1  thought,  to  see  all  these  wild 
creatures  of  the  ranges  being  roundid  up  into  the  bliss- 
ful corral  of  matrimony!  How  comforting,  after  one's 
own  feathers  have  been  trimmed,  to  see  others  joining 
the  ranks  of  the  wing-clipped!  Love  should  not  be 
represented  as  a  rosy  Cupid,  but  as  a  red-jowled  re- 
cruiting sergeant.  True,  I  have  one  of  the  best  wives 
in  the  world ;  yet,  what  man  is  there,  who,  if  he  has  ever 
roved  the  Barbary  coasts  of  Philander  Land,  does  not 
once  in  a  while  sigh  for  the  old  freedom?  Marriage  is 
a  constraint  to  be  good,  against  which  the  best  of  us 
feel  mona-iits  of  faint,  futile  rebellion. 

Sometimes  I  wished  that  An  'stasia  was  not  so  des- 
perately practical.  She  seems  to  consider  that  I  am  a 
species  of  great  child,  and  must  be  looked  after  ac- 
cordingly. I  am  an  ardent  suffragist;  I  have  always 
advocated  the  rights  of  woman;  I  have  always  believed 


THE  SHADOW  OF  SUCCESS 


itSd 


in  her  higher  destiny ;  I  scofF  at  the  idea  that  woman's 
sphere  is  the  home,  and  desire  to  see  her  marching 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  man  in  the  ranks  of  progress. 
Yet,  alas !  I  cannot  make  a  convert  of  Anastasia. 

Often  I  have  tried  to  interest  her  in  the  burning 
question ;  to  inspire  in  her  a  sense  of  having  a  mission, 
of  being  oppressed:  hut  Anastasia  only  laughs  softly. 
She  seems  to  have  the  ridiculous  and  old-fashioned  idea 
that  her  duty  is  to  make  me  happy,  to  surround  me 
with  comfortable  routine,  to  remove  from  my  daily 
path  all  irritating  and  distracting  protuberances.  I 
have  left,  with  elaborate  carelessness  on  her  kitchen 
table,  enough  feminist  literature  to  convert  a  dozen 
women.  But  Anastasia  only  rearranges  it  neatly, 
props  an  open  cook-book  against  it,  and  studies  some 
new  recipe  for  stuffing  duck. 

"  Ah,  no,"  she  would  say.  "  I  must  not  waste  my 
time  reading.  That  is  not  serious  of  me.  I  have  my 
menage,  my  marketing,  my  sewing, —  Oh,  so  much  to 
do!  If  I  threw  away  my  time  reading,  my  Lovely  One 
might  have  holes  in  his  socks;  and  just  think  what  a 
shame  that  would  be  for  me ! " 

Yes,  it  is  sad  to  relate,  but  I  believe  if  I  had  offered 
her  the  choice  between  a  nev  hat  and  the  vote  she 
would  take  the  hat. 

How  often  have  I  wished  she  had  more  individuality ! 
Her  idea  seems  to  be  to  mould  her  nature  to  mine,  so 
that  every  day  she  becomes  more  like  a  faithful  shadow. 
How  anxiously  she  watches  me  as  I  eat  my  soup,  so 
afraid  it  may  not  be  to  my  taste!  How  cheerful,  how 
patient,  how  eager  to  please  she  is!  Oh,  for  a  flare 
of  temper  sometimes,  a  sign  of  spirit,  something  to 
show  that  she  is  a  woman  of  character,  of  originality! 


290 


THE  PRETENDER 


But  no.  Her  duty,  as  she  conceives  it,  is  to  minister 
to  my  material  comfort,  to  see  that  I  enjoy  my  food, 
to  make  me  wrap  up  sufficiently.  Yet  in  these  things 
she  is  rather  tyrannical,  insisting  on  my  coming  home 
to  my  meals  at  the  hour  I  have  decided  on,  emphatic 
that  I  change  my  socks  at  least  twice  a  week,  indignant 
if  I  brush  my  hair  after  putting  on  my  coat.  However, 
she  keeps  my  things  in  beautiful  order,  and  although 
I  feel  at  times  that  she  is  a  little  exacting  I  yield  with 
good  grace.  After  all,  one  ought  to  consider  one's  wife 
sometimes. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  have  insisted  on  some  con- 
cessions on  her  part  that  are  revolutionary  to  the 
French  mind  —  that  of  sleeping  with  the  window  open, 
for  instance.  I  over-ruled  her  objection  that  the  snow 
and  rain  entering  during  the  night,  spoiled  her  parquet. 
She  keeps  it  beautifully  polished,  by  the  way,  and 
claims  that  the  shining  of  it  every  day  gives  her  enough 
exercise  without  the  Swedish  gymnastics  I  insist  on  her 
taking  under  my  direction.  But  I  am  so  anxious  she 
should  keep  slim  and  lissom,  and  the  exercises  are  cer- 
tainly effective. 

But  another  matter  is  beginning  to  occupy  my  mind 
and  to  give  me  a  strange  mixture  of  satisfaction  and 
regret.  This  is  the  apparent  success  of  Tom,  Dick 
and  Harry.  About  a  month  ago  I  received  my  six  pres- 
entation copies.  MacWaddy  and  Wedge  had  done 
their  work  well.  The  cover  was  stirring  in  the  ex- 
treme. An  American  publicity  man  on  his  probation 
had  seized  on  it  as  a  medium  for  his  first  efforts.  It 
was  advertised  in  the  weekly,  and  even  in  the  daily 
papers;  a  royal  princess  was  announced  as  having 
included  it  in  her  library,  and  more  or  less  picturesque 


THE  SHADOW  OF  SUCCESS 


S91 


paragraphs  about  the  author  began  to  go  the  round 
of  the  press.  The  imaginative  efForts  of  the  publicity 
man  were  not  stultified  by  any  sordid  knowledge  of 
hi.s  subject. 

Then  press  clippings  began  to  come  in.  A  great 
many  of  these  were  a  repetition  of  the  puff  on  the 
paper  wrapper,  which  I  had  written  myself,  and  there- 
fore were  favourable.  But  the  reviewers  who  read  the 
books  tliey  review  did  not  let  me  down  so  easily.  The 
Times  was  tolerant;  The  Academy  acidulous;  The 
Spectator  severe.  On  the  whole,  however,  my  debut 
was  decidedly  successful.  Nearly  all  concluded  by  say- 
ing that  "despite  its  obvious  faults,  the  faults  of  a 
beginner,  its  crudencss,  its  obviousness,  its  thinness  of 
character-drawing,  this  first  book  of  Silenus  Starset 
showed  more  than  the  average  promise,  and  his  future 
work  should  be  looked  forward  to  with  some  expecta- 
tion." 

I  gave  copies  to  Helstern  and  Lorrimcr,  and  they 
were  both  enthusiastic  in  that  tolerant  way  one's  friends 
have  of  applauding  one's  performances. 

"  For  a  first  novel,  it's  wonderful,"  said  the  sculptor. 

"  You're  a  marvel  for  a  beginner,"  said  the  artist. 

These  back-handed  compliments  rather  discounted 
my  pleasure.  On  the  other  hand,  Anastasia,  who  read 
it  with  rapture,  thought  it  the  most  wonderful  produc- 
tion since  "  Les  Miserables."  She  hugged  and  treas- 
ured it  as  if  it  were  something  rarely  precious,  and 
verily  I  believe  if  she  had  been  asked  to  choose  between 
it  and  the  Bible  she  would  have  chosen  Tom,  Dick  and 
Harry. 

Yes,  it  had  all  the  appearance  of  success,  and  yet  I 
was,  in  a  way,  disappointed.     It  was  the  equal  of  my 


292 


THE  PRETENDER 


other  work  —  no  better,  no  worse.  It  Imd  the  sai.." 
fresh,  impetuous  spirit,  the  sjinic  wheedling,  human 
quality,  the  same  light-hearted  ingenuity.  It  had  the 
points  that  made  for  popularity ;  yet  I  had  hoped  to 
strike  a  truer  note.  I  had  a  fatal  faculty  for  success. 
I  began  to  fear  that  I  was  doomed  irrevocably  to  be  a 
best-scllcrmonger. 

Well,  it  must  be  as  the  public  willed.  I  could  only 
write  in  the  way  that  was  natural  to  ntc.  Still  I  hoped 
that  in  The  Great  Quietut  1  would  show  that  I  could 
aspire  to  better  things.  There  were  opportunities  in 
it  for  idyllic  description,  for  the  display  of  imagination. 
I  would  try  to  rise  to  this  new  occasion. 

So  I  was  deep  in  the  book  the  following  Sunday 
morning  when  Anastasia  reminded  me  it  was  the  day 
we  had  promised  to  dine  with  her  mother.  The  old 
lad ',  she  said,  had  asked  her  to  go  in  the  afternoon 
and  help  to  prepare  dinner.  Would  I  follow  about 
six  in  the  evening?  I  promised,  glad  to  get  the  extra 
time  on  my  manuscript. 

About  six,  then,  I  looked  up  from  my  work;  sud- 
denly remembered  the  important  engagement,  and 
rushed  on  my  best  garments.  I  called  a  taxi  and  told 
the  chauffeur  to  stop  at  the  beginning  of  the  street. 
Anastasia,  if  she  saw  me,  would  give  me  a  lecture  on 
extravagance. 

The  house  was  in  the  rue  MontgoWer,  up  five  flights. 
I  knocked  and  Anastasia  answered  the  door.  She 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  crying.  There  was  a  sound  of 
conversation  from  an  interior  room,  where  I  saw  a  table 
set  for  dinner,  with  the  red  checked  table  cloth  beloved 
of  the  bourgeois. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  whispered. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  SUCCESS 


S9S 


"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  jou  come.  Wat  you  think  she 
want,  thut  had  muzzaire  of  me?  She  ask  another  man 
here  and  she  want  that  I  leave  you  and  marry  him. 
He  is  quite  rich,  and  she  say  she  geeve  me  twonty  tou- 
sand  francs  for  dot.  All  afternoon  she  d'ucute  with 
me.  She  tell  me  I  always  am  poor  wiz  you,  and  nevaire 
have  much  confort.  And  then  she  say  you  are  stranger 
and  some  day  you  leave  me.  She  tell  me  the  uzzer  man 
gecvc  me  automobile  and  I  will  be  very  grand.  And 
what  you  sink?  When  I  say  no,  no,  no,  I  nevaire, 
nevaire  leeve  you,  she  say  she  geeve  you  two  tousand 
francs  and  you  geeve  me  up  like  nothing.  Oh,  I  'ave 
awful,  awful  time.** 

"  I  don't  care  two  pins  for  your  mother,'*  I  said. 
"But  whore's  the  other  party  to  this  arrangement? 
\yiKre's  the  damned  Frenchman?  I'm  going  to  knock 
his  face  in.'* 

Suddenly  Madame  Guinoval  appeared,  wearing  a 
black  satin  robe  that  crackled  on  her  and  threatened  to 
burst  with  every  movement  of  her  swelling  muscles. 
The  slightly  moustached  mouth  was  grim  as  a  closed 
trap,  and  the  red  face  was  flushed  and  angry  look- 
mg. 

I  was  furious,  but  I  tried  to  be  calm. 

Madam,"  I  said,  «  Anastasia  has  just  told  me  all. 

You  are  her  mother  so  I  do  not  express  my  opinion  of 

you,  but,"  I  added  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  where  is  the 

sacred  pig  who  wants  to  steal  away  my  wife?  " 

There  was  a  movement  of  alarm  from  the  dining- 
room.  ® 

"  Because  here's  where  I  show,"  I  went  on,  « that 
an  American  is  equal  to  two  Frenchmen.  Let  me  eet 
at  the  brute."  * 


294 


THE  PRETENDER 


Anastasia  clung  to  mo,  bcg^ng  nic  to  he  calm,  but 
Madame  Guinoval  was  haughtily  intrepid. 

"  Hegesippe!  Ilegesippe! "  she  cried,  "come  out  and 
show  this  coquin  you  are  a  brave  man." 

There  was  no  alacrity  on  the  part  of  Hegesippe,  so 
the  lady  entered  and  fairly  boosted  him  to  the  front. 
I  stared;  I  gasped;  my  hands  dropped;  for  the  suitor, 
looking  very  much  alarmed  indeed,  was  little  Monsieur 
Beberose. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  you're  a  fine  man  to  try  and  steal 
a  friend's  wife." 

It  was  now  the  turn  of  Anastasia  and  Madame 
Guinoval  to  gasp,  for  Monsieur  Beberose  burst  away 
from  the  grasp  of  the  latter  and  rushing  to  me  began 
to  stammer  a  flood  of  apologies.  He  was  so  sorry; 
he  had  not  known  how  things  were;  he  had  been  de- 
ceived. "  It  was  that  woman  had  deceived  him,"  he 
said  dramatically,  pointing  to  Madame  Guinoval. 

"  That  woman  "  retorted  by  a  terrible  calm,  a  calm 
more  menacing  than  any  storm,  a  calm  pregnant  with 
withering  contempt. 

"Out  of  my  house,"  she  said  at  last;  "out,  out, 
you  sale  gottjat!  "  And  Monsieur  Beberose  needed  no 
second  bidding.  He  grabbed  his  hat  from  the  rack 
and  his  cane  from  the  stand  and  vanished.  Then  the 
virago  turned  to  us.  Going  into  the  bedroom  she 
brought  Anastasia's  coat  and  hat.  She  ignored  me 
utterly. 

"Do  you   still,"  she  said,  "intend  to  remain  with 


iS  man; 


?  >» 


thi 

Anastasia  nodded  a  determined  head,  at  which  the 
mother  threw  the  coat  and  hat  at  her  feet. 

"  Then  go,  and  never  let  me  see  your  face  again. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  SUCCESS 


^5 


Novtr  will   I   give  my   consent   to  your  nmrriage  in 
Frnnct'.     May  my  tongue  wither  if  I  ever  give  it." 

"  Put  on  your  hat  outside,"  I  said  to  Anastasia,  and 
pushed  her  out.     Then  I  turned  to  the  woman: 

"  It  does  not  matter,"  I  hissed.  "  You're  a  devil. 
You've  tried  to  play  a  dirty  game,  but  it  won't  do. 
And  now  listen  to  me." 

Then  I  took  n  step  towards  her  and  adopted  the 
manner  of  a  stage  villain.  My  face  was  apparently 
convulsed  with  rage,  and  my  raised  lips  showed  my 
teeth  in  a  vicious  snarl.  It  was  most  effective.  I  vow 
the  woman  shrank  back  a  moment. 

"I'll  pay  you  out,  you  harridan.  I'll  make  you 
smart  for  this.  Nobody  ever  did  me  a  bad  turn  but 
what  I  did  them  a  worse.  Beware,  Madame,  beware. 
I  will  have  my  revenge." 

I  slammed  the  door  in  her  face.  Then  I  laughed 
loud  and  long. 

"  I  say !  it's  all  awfully  funny.  Little  Thing.  Now 
let's  go  and  have  some  dinner  in  place  of  the  one  we 
should  have  had  with  your  mother." 

When  we  got  home  that  night,  another  matter 
claimed  my  attention.  On  opening  The  Bookman, 
which  had  arrived  that  morning,  I  found  therein  a  well- 
displayed  advertisement  of  Twn,  Dick  and  Harry. 
There  was  half  a  column  of  press  extracts  carefully 
culled  and  pruned,  the  evil  of  them  having  in  some  in- 
explicable way  evaporated.  But,  oh,  wonderful  fact 
that  made  me  scratch  my  head  thoughtfully  f  in 
bracketed  italics  was  the  announcement:  Seventh  Im- 
pression. There  was  no  guessing  how  many  copies 
went  to  an  impression.  If  the  publishers  were  boosting 
up  the  number  of  editions  by  printing  only  five  hundred 


'ti  . 


296 


THE  PRETENDER 


copies  at  a  time  this  did  not  mean  much.  But  it  was 
hardly  likely.  In  any  case  it  did  not  look  as  if  Mac- 
Waddy  and  Wedge  were  losing  money  over  their  ven- 
ture. 

The  result  was  that  next  morning  I  read  over  my 
contract  with  them.  Thank  goodness!  I  still  had  the 
American  rights ;  so  by  the  first  post  I  wrote  to  Wid- 
geon &  Co.,  the  literary  agents,  putting  the  matter  in 
their  hands.  There  was  a  reply  by  return  saying  that 
there  were  several  representatives  of  American  firms  in 
London  at  that  time,  and  that  they  would  get  in  touch 
with  them  without  delay. 

The  following  day  there  came  a  telegram :  "  Messrs. 
Liverwood  &  Son  offer  to  publish  book  on  fifteen  per 
cent,  royalty  basis.     Will  we  accept.     Widgeon." 

I  immediately  wired  back:  "Accept  for  immediate 
publication." 

Well,  that  was  off  my  mind  anyway.  A  few  days 
after,  I  got  a  letter  from  MacWaddv  &  Wedge  saying 
that  they  hoped  to  have  a  new  book  from  me  soon. 
What  were  the  prospects,  they  wanted  to  know,  of  me 
btmg  able  to  let  them  have  it  for  their  autumn  lists.? 
In  which  case  they  would  begin  an  advertising  cam- 
paign right  away.  I  wrote  back  that  mv  affairs  were 
now  in  the  hands  of  Widgeon  k  Co.  and' that  all  busi- 
ness would  be  done  through  them. 

A  week  went  past.  Every  day  I  had  new  proof  that 
Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  was  going  well.  Then  one 
morning  I  had  a  letter  from  my  agents.  They  had, 
they  said,  an  opportunity  to  place  a  good  'serial 
Would  I  send  them  as  much  of  my  new  book  as  I  had 
finished  and  give  a  synopsis  of  the  rest.  I  did  so,  and 
in  three  weeks'  time  they  wrote  again  to  say  that  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  SUCCESS 


297 


American  magazine  Uplift  had  bought  the  serial  rights 
for  a  thousand  dollars. 

That,  too,  was  as  satisfactory  as  it  was  unexpected. 
It  was  like  finding  the  money.  Once  more  I  seemed  to 
have  entered  on  the  avenue  of  success  that  seemed  to 
open  up  before  me  in  spite  of  myself.  From  now  on, 
there  would  be  nothing  but  monotonous  vistas  of 
smooth  going.  I  was  doomed  to  popular  applause. 
Once  more  would  I  leap  into  the  lists  as  a  writer  of  best- 
sellers. So  strongly  had  I  the  gift  of  interesting  nar- 
rative that  I  could  win  half  a  dozen  new  reputations ; 
of  that  I  felt  sure. 

Yes,  I  had  succeeded  —  no,  I  mean  I  had  failed, 
failed  by  these  later  lights  that  Paris  had  kindled  within 
nil'.  Here,  amid  art  that  is  eternal,  art  that  means 
sacrifice,  surrender,  renunciation,  I  had  learned  to  de- 
spise that  work  which  merely  serves  the  caprice  of  an 
hour.  I  had  come  to  crave  form,  to  strive  for  style. 
Yet  what  can  one  do?  My  efforts  for  art's  sake  were 
artificial  and  stilted ;  it  was  only  when  I  had  a  story 
to  tell  that  I  became  entirely  pleasing.  Well,  let 
me  take  my  own  measure.  I  would  always  be  a  bagman 
of  letters.  In  that  great  division  of  scribes  into  sheep 
and  goats  I  would  never  be  other  than  n  bleating  and 
incorrigible  goat. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  FATE  OF  FAME 

^Iadame  Seraphixe  had  spoiled  my  plan  of  a  triple 
niarriago,  but  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  a  double 
one.  It  took  place  one  midsummer  morning  in  the 
Mairie,  rue  Crenelle.  On  the  strength  of  my  thousand 
dollars  from  the  Uplift  people,  I  offered  to  pay  all  ex- 
penses. 

In  the  great  gloomy  chamber  of  the  Mairie  we  oc- 
cupied one  of  a  series  of  benches.  Frosine  and  Rou- 
gette  were  looking  radiant,  and  Helstevr  and  Lorrimer 
comported  themselves  as  if  getting  married  was  part 
of  their  daily  routine.  I  was  the  only  person  at  all 
excited. 

On  the  other  benches  were  other  bridal  parties,  a 
bridal  party  to  a  bench.  On  a  platform  facing  us  sat 
a  tall  man  with  an  Assyrian  beard.  He  wore  evening 
dress  traversed  by  a  tricoloured  sash.  He  took  each 
couple  in  turn,  looking  down  on  them  with  no  more 
nitercst  than  if  they  had  been  earwigs.  Then  he  mum- 
bled into  his  beard  for  about  two  minutes;  finally. he 
cleared  his  throat  and  for  the  first  time  we  heard' him 
distinctly:     "The  ceremony  is  terminated." 

After  he  had  spoken  this  phrase  about  a  dozen  times 
our  turn  came.  Joyfully  I  pushed  forward  my  candi- 
dates and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  admitted  into  the 
matrimonial  fold  according  to  the  law  of  France. 

Then  I  whirled  them  off  to  Marguery's  where  we  had 
a  lunch  of  uproarious  jollity,  punctuated  with  kisses. 

298 


THE  FATE  OF  FAME 


299 


compliments  and  toasts.  They  would  fain  have  lin- 
gered, hut  I  whisked  them  off  once  more  to  the  Place 
Denfort  Rochereau  where  on  every  Saturday  afternoon 
assembles  the  crowd  of  tourists  that  descends  into  the 
darkness  of  the  Catacombs.  I  bought  candles  for  all, 
showed  my  permit  to  the  doo''-keeper,  and  wo  joined 
the  long  procession  of  candle-bearing  cosmopolitans. 
The  three  women  were  delighted.  It  seemed  so  original 
for  a  Parisian  to  visit  the  Catacombs  of  Paris. 

So  for  miles  we  followed  these  weird  galleries  hewn 
from  the  living  rock  and  lined  with  the  bones  of  their 
million  dead.  As  we  walked  in  single  file  the  flickering 
candles  gruesomely  lit  up  the  brown  walls  where  the 
shank  bones  were  piled  with  such  meticulous  neatness, 
knob  dove-tailing  i  o  hollow,  and  the  whole  face  of 
them  decorated  with  fantastic  frescoes  of  thousands  of 
skulls.  And  behind  these  cordwood-like  piles  were  vast 
heaps  of  indistinguishable  debris,  the  bones  of  that 
media?val  myriad  gutted  from  the  graveyards  when 
the  great  city  had  to  have  more  room. 

We  were  all  emerging  from  a  side-gallery  when  I 
pulled  Anastasia  back ;  for  there,  at  the  head  of  a 
party  of  Cook's  tourists,  whom  should  I  see  but  her 
enemy  O'Flather.  Luckily  he  did  not  notice  her  and 
she  did  not  recognise  h..n,  so  I  held  my  tongue.  But 
I  thought : 

"  Ah,  now  if  I  were  a  writer  of  fantastic  fiction, 
instead  of  a  recorder  of  feeble  fact,  what  a  chance  I 
should  have  here !  Could  I  not  in  some  way  have  left 
us  in  the  darkness,  all  three  together,  our  candles  lost 
down  one  of  those  charnel  pits."  Then  imagine:  a  bat- 
tle in  the  dark  between  him  and  me,  with  the  girl  in- 
sensible between  us.     There  in  the  black  boweh  of  Paris 


300 


THE  PRETENDER 


how  we  smash  at  one  another  with  naked  femurs  in  our 
hands!  How  the  bones  and  dust  of  death  come  top- 
phng  down  on  us !  How,  finally,  I  bowl  him  over  with 
n  chance-hurled  skull.  Then  imagine  how  I  wander 
there  in  the  darkness  with  the  girl  in  my  arms !  How 
we  starve  and  nearly  go  mad !  And  how  at  last,  on  the 
followmg  Saturday,  the  next  batch  of  tourists  finds  us 
lying  insensible  at  the  foot  of  the  great  stairs !  "  As 
I  thought  of  these  things,  by  an  absent-minded  move- 
ment, I  raised  my  candle.  There  was  a  fierce,  frizzling 
noise.  It  was  the  feathers  on  the  hat  of  the  stout  dame 
in  front.  They  shrunk  in  a  moment  down  to  three 
weedy  quills.  Poor  lady !  she  did  not  know,  and  I  — 
I  confess  it  with  shame  —  had  not  the  moral  couraee 
to  tell  her.  * 

No  sooner  had  we  got  into  the  open  air  again  than 
I  whirled  my  party  off  again  to  Montmartre.  There 
was  a  matinee  at  the  Grand  Guignol,  and  I  had  taken 
seats  m  the  low  gallery.  The  pieces  were  more  thrilling 
than  usual  and  the  three  women  screamed  ecstatically 

For  example:  A  father  and  son  are  left  in  charge 
of  a  solitary  lighthouse.  (You  see  the  living-room  of 
the  lighthouse;  you  hear  the  howling  of  the  storm.) 

1  hen  the  son  confesses  to  the  father  that  he  has 
..een  b.tten  by  a  rabid  dog  and  that  he  feels  the  virus 
in  his  veins.  He  implores  the  father  to  kill  him,  but 
the  old  man  refuses.     The  storm  increases. 

The  son  begins  to  go  mad.  He  freezes,  he  burns,  he 
raves,  he  weeps.  Night  is  falling.  It  is  time  to  light 
he  lamps  The  old  man  goes  to  do  so;  but  the  son  is 
trying  to  kill  himself  and  the  father  has  to  wrestle  with 
him.  The  hoarse  horn  of  a  ship  is  heard  in  the  grow- 
ing storm. 


THE  FATE  OF  FAME 


301 


Tliere  is  no  time  to  lose.  The  ship  is  close  nt  hand, 
rushin/^  on  the  rocks.  The  old  man  leaves  his  son  and 
springs  to  the  rope-ladder  leading  to  the  lights.  He 
gets  up  it  almost  to  the  top,  but  the  son  is  after  him. 
With  the  blood-curdling  snarl  of  a  mad  animal  he 
seizes  his  father  by  the  leg  and  buries  his  teeth  in  it. 
The  old  man  kicks  out,  and  the  son,  loosing  his  hold, 
tumbles  crashing  to  the  stage  below.  The  curtain  falls 
on  the  spectacle  of  the  old  man  crouching  over  the 
dead  body  of  his  boy  and  the  doomed  ship  crashing  on 
the  rocks. 

This  was  one  of  the  most  cheerful  pieces  we  saw,  so 
that  when  we  issued  forth  again  we  were  all  in  excellent 
frame  of  mind  for  an  aperitif  at  the  Moulin  Rouge. 
We  Ii;"'  dinner  at  the  Abbaye,  and  finished  up  by  visit- 
ing thj-o  bizarre  cabarets,  Hell,  Heaven  and  Annihila- 
tion. 

"  It's  been  a  lovely  day  you've  arranged  for  us," 
said  Lorrimer  as  we  broke  up;  "but  one  thing  you 
missed  to  make  it  complete.  Could  j'ou  not  have  con- 
trived a  visit  to  the  Morgue?  " 

"  I  tried,"  I  admitted  mournfully,  "  but  they're  not 
issuing  permits  any  more."  However,  I  agreed  with 
him :  it  had  been  one  of  the  loveliest  days  I  had  ever 
spent. 

So  Lorrimer  and  Rougette  went  off  to  Brittany, 
and  Helstem  and  Frosine  to  Normandv,  and  it  seemed 
very  lonely  without  them  all.  Yet  the  days  passed 
serenely  enough  in  our  little  apartment  in  that  quiet 
by-street.  I  was  becoming  more  and  more  absorbed  in 
The  Great  Quietus  which  already  was  beginning  to  show 
signs  of  unruliness.  My  Pegasus,  harnessed  to  im- 
agination, is  hard  to  keep  in  hand,  and  I  perceived 


\ 


302 


THE  PRETENDER 


that  soon  it  would  take  the  bit  in  its  teeth.  Anastasia 
WHS  deeply  interested  in  some  tapestry  she  was  trying 
to  imitate  from  a  desi^  In  the  Cluny  Museum.  Some- 
times for  hours  as  wc  both  worked  you  would  not  hear 
a  sound  in  the  tiny  room. 

Then  wlun  we  were  tired  of  toiling  we  wouhl  go 
out  on,  to  me,  the  pleasantcst  of  all  the  boulevards, 
Montparnassc.  We  would  walk  down  as  far  as  the 
Invalides,  and,  returninfr.  sit  in  front  of  the  Dome  or 
the  Rotando  Cafe  and  sip  Dubonnets  while  we  watched 
the  passing  throng.  We  mixed  with  the  groups  of 
artists  and  students  that  thronged  the  rue  de  la  (Jrand 
Chaumiere  with  its  gleaming  signs  of  Croquis  schools, 
where  for  half  a  franc  one  may  sketch  for  three  hours 
some  nude  damsel  with  a  wrist  watch  and  very  dirtv 
feet.  Or  \\v  spent  a  tranquil  evening  in  a  Cinema, 
halfway  down  the  Boulevard  Raspail,  whose  cherry- 
coloured  lights  saves  the  people  on  the  apartments 
across  the  way  a  considerable  sum  yearly  in  gas  bills. 

Days  of  simple  joys!  What  a  world  of  difference 
a  few  extra  francs  make.  Econom}'  still,  but  self-re- 
specting economy,  not  sordid  striving  to  make  ends 
meet.  Anastasia  would  not  waste  anything.  The  re- 
mains of  the  gigot  for  dinner  appeared  as  a  ragout  at 
lunch.  The  morning  milk  left  over  must  serve  as  the 
evening  soup.  Often  I  groaned  in  spirit,  and  sug- 
gested a  little  more  recklessness.  But  no !  I  must  not 
forget  we  were  poor.  We  must  cut  our  coat  according 
to  our  cloth. 

It  was  useless  to  try  and  change  her.  She  was  of 
that  race  of  born  house-wives  who  have  made  France 
the  rich  nation  it  is  to-day.  Early  in  the  morning  see 
their  kimono-clad  arms  protruded  from  their  windows 


THE  FATE  OF  FAME 


303 


to  shake  the  energetic  duster;  a  little  later  see  them 
seated,  trim  and  smiling  at  the  cash-desk?  in  their  hus- 
band's shops.  Centuries  of  prudence  are  in  their  veins ; 
industry  is  to  them  a  religion,  and  the  instinct  of  thrift 
is  almost  tyrannical.  I  know  one  of  them  who  insisted 
on  her  daughter  marrying  an  Englishman  because  she 
had  sent  her  to  a  school  in  Brighton  for  a  year,  and  did 
not  want  to  sec  the  money  wasted. 

So,  recognising  the  genius  of  the  race,  I  submitted 
meekly  to  Anastasia's  sense  of  economy.  Her  greatest 
delight  was  to  spend  the  afternoon  in  the  great  Maga- 
sins  that  lie  behind  the  Opera.  She  would  spend  three 
hours  there,  walking  them  from  end  to  end,  turning 
over  enormous  quantities  of  stuff  which  she  would  throw 
aside  in  the  contemptuous  way  of  the  born  shopper, 
swooping  hawk-like,  pressing  intrepidly  through  crowds 
that  appalled  me,  breathing  air  that  gave  me  a  head- 
ache, and  in  the  end  returning  with  six  sous  of  riband, 
declaring  that  she  had  had  a  glorious  day. 

Often  I  wonder  how  a  woman  who  is  tired  if  she 
walks  a  mile  in  the  open  air  can  walk  ten  in  a  close, 
heated  department  store  without  fatigue.  As  I  walk 
in  the  street  Anastasia  lags  hopelessly  in  the  rear,  but 
the  moment  we  enter  the  Louvre  or  the  Bon  Marche 
there  is  a  mighty  change.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  bar- 
gain stalker  gleams  in  her  eyes;  she  becomes  alert,  a 
creature  of  fierce  and  predatory  activity.  It  is  I  who 
am  helpless  now,  I  who  try  in  vain  to  keep  up,  as  in 
some  marvellous  way  she  threads  in  and  out  that  packed 
mob  of  sister  bargain-stalkers.  She  is  still  fresh  when 
I  am  ready  to  drop  with  exhaustion,  and  she  knows  the 
Galcrie  and  the  Printemps  as  well  as  I  know  my  pocket. 
Her  only  weakness  is  for  special  bargains.     How  often 


inn 


THE  PRETENDER 


has  she  bought  fiincy  boxes  of  note-paper  and  envelopes, 
just  because  they  were  too  cheap  to  resist.  I  have 
enough  rose  and  cream  stationery  to  last  nic  the  balance 
of  my  life.  I  believe  she  buys  them  for  the  sake  of  the 
box. 

As  the  days  went  on  I  found  myself  becoming  more 
and  more  in  love  with  the  lotus  life  of  Bohemia.  1  be- 
gan to  dread  making  an  engagement ;  it  weighed  on 
me  like  a  burden.  I  wanted  to  be  free,  free  to  do  what 
I  liked  every  moment  of  my  time.  An  engagement 
was  a  constraint.  The  chances  were  that  when  the 
time  came  I  did  not  feel  in  a  sociable  mood.  Yet  I 
would  have  to  take  part  in  conversation  that  did  not  in- 
terest me;  1  would  have  to  adapt  my  thoughts  to  the 
thoughts  of  others.  So  Society  became  to  me  a  form 
of  spiritual  tyranny,  a  state  where  I  could  not  be  my- 
self, but  had  to  play  the  complacent  ape  among  people 
who  were  often  uncongenial. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  was,  I  was  overworking  my- 
self, living  again  that  strange  intense  life  of  the  maker 
of  books,  heedless  of  the  outside  world,  and  more  and 
more  vividly  intent  on  the  glowing  world  of  my  dreams. 
When  I  felt  the  force  flag  within  me  I  would  stimulate 
myself  anew  with  draughts  of  strong  black  coffee. 
More  and  more  was  I  the  martyr  to  my  moods,  a  prey 
to  strange  enthusiasms,  strange  depressions. 

For  hours  I  would  sit  tense  over  my  typewriter,  all 
nerves  and  desire;  now  attacking  it  in  a  frenzy  of 
whirling  phrases,  now  wrestling  with  the  god  of  scribes 
for  a  few  feeble  fumbling  words.  Words  —  how  I  loved 
them !  What  a  glory  it  was  to  twist  and  torture  them, 
to  marshall  and  command  them,  to  work  them  like 
jewels  into  the  gleaming  fabric  of  a  story'. 


THE  FATE  OF  FAME 


305 


As  I  walked  the  streits  I  had  moments  of  wonderful 
exaltation;  moments  when  my  brain  would  be  full  of 
strange  gleams  and  shadows.  I  would  know  the  joy 
that  is  theirs  who  feel  for  a  moment  the  inner  spirit  of 
things.  I  would  have  the  reeling  sense  of  intoxication 
as  the  Right  Word  shot  into  my  consciousness.  As  I 
walked,  the  ground  beneath  my  feet  would  seem  billowy, 
the  world  around  strangely,  deliciously  unreal,  and  the 
people  would  take  on  a  new  and  marvellous  aspect. 
So  light  I  felt,  that  I  imagined  my  feet  must  have  some 
prehensible  quality  preventing  me  flying  upward. 

Particularly  I  favoured  walking  in  an  evening  of 
>>oft-falling  rain.  It  turned  the  boulevards  into  ave- 
nues of  delight.  The  pavements  were  of  beaten  gold; 
down  streets  that  were  like  plaques  of  silver  shot  ruby 
lights  of  taxi-cabs;  the  vivid  leaves  on  the  trees  were 
clustered  jewels.  Perhaps  I  would  see  two  people  de- 
scending from  a  shining  carriage,  the  lady  in  exquisite 
gown,  held  up  to  show  silk-stockinged  ankles,  the  man 
in  evening  dress.  "  They  are  going  to  dinner,"  I  would 
say ;  «  to  force  themselves  to  be  agreeable  for  three 
hours;  to  eat  much  rich,  unnecessary  food.  Ah!  how 
much  better  to  be  one's  own  self  and  to  walk  and  dream 
in  the  still,  soft  rain." 

So  on  I  would  go,  and  the  world  would  become  like 
n  shadow  beside  the  glow  of  my  imagination.  I  would 
think  of  my  work,  thrill  at  its  drama,  chuckle  over  its 
humour,  choke  at  its  pathos.  I  would  talk  aloud  my 
dialogues  till  people  stared  at  me,  even  in  Paris,  this 
city  of  privileged  eccentricity.  I  was  more  absent- 
nunded  than  ever,  and  my  nerves  were  often  on  edge. 
My  manner  bec.imc  spasmodic,  my  temper  uncertain. 
I  avoided  my  friends,  took  almost  no  notice  of  Anasta- 


306 


THE  PRETENDER 


sla;  in  short,  I  was  agonising  in  the  travail  of,  alas! 
best-seller  birth. 

For  my  story  had  once  more  got  out  of  hand.  It 
was  writing  itself.  I  could  not  check  it.  I  would 
rattle  off  page  after  page  till  the  old  typewriter  seemed 
to  curse  me  and  my  frenzy.  Then,  if  perchance  I  was 
sitting  mute  and  miserable  before  it,  a  few  cups  of 
that  hot,  black  coffee  till  my  heart  began  to  thump, 
and  I  would  be  at  it  once  more.  I  wanted  to  get  it 
finished,  to  rid  my  mind  of  it,  to  send  it  away  so  that 
I  would  never  see  it  again. 

At  last  with  a  great  spurt  of  effort  1  again  wrote 
the  sweetest  word  of  all  —  The  End.  I  leaned  back 
with  a  vast  sigh :     "  Thank  God,  I  can  rest  now." 

Then  I  looked  at  the  manuscript  sadly. 

"  Another  of  them.  I've  no  doubt  it  will  sell  in 
the  tens  of  thousands.  It  will  be  a  success;  yet  what 
a  failure !  What  a  chance  I  had  to  make  art  of  it ! 
What  poetry!  What  romance!  And  I  have  sacri- 
ficed them  for  what?  —  adventure,  exciting  narrative, 
melodrama.  I  had  to  invent  a  villain,  an  educated 
super-ape  who  makes  things  hum.  But  I  couldn't  help 
it.  It  was  just  the  way  it  cacnc  to  me  and  I  could  do 
no  other. 

"  Oh,  cursed  Fate !  I  am  doomed  to  success.  Like 
a  Nemesis  it  pursues  me.  If  I  could  only  achieve  one 
glorious  failure  how  happy  I  would  be!  But  no.  I 
am  fated  to  become  a  writer  with  a  vogue,  a  bloated 
bond-clipper. 

"  Alas !  No  more  the  joy  of  the  struggle,  the  hope, 
the  despair.  Farewell,  garrets  and  crusts!  Farewell, 
light-hearted  poverty !  Farewell,  the  gay,  hard  life ! 
Bohemia,  Paris,  Youth  —  farewell ! " 


THE  FATE  OF  FAME 


{J07 


And  as  I  gazed  at  the  manuscript  that  was  to  make 
for  me  a  barrel  of  monej  there  never  was  more  miser- 
able scribe  than  I. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  MANUFACTURE  OF  A  VILLAIN 

"Here's  crime,"  I  said  darkly,  as  I  touched  glasses 
with  O'Flather. 

The  man  with  the  bull-dog  face  and  the  brindled  hair 
knotched  his  sandy  eyebrows  in  interrogation. 

"  Down  with  the  police,"  I  went  on,  taking  a  gloomy 
gulp  of  grenadine. 

"Wot  d'j'c  mean?"  said  my  boon  companion,  sus- 
pending the  operation  of  a  syphon  to  regard  me  sus- 
piciously. 

"  O'Flather,"  I  lowered  my  voice  to  a  mysterious 
whisper  — "  have  you  never  longed  to  revel  in  violence 
and  blood?     Have  you  never  longed  to  be  a  villain?" 

"  Can't  say  as  I  have,"  said  O'Flather,  somewhat 
relieved,  proceeding  to  sample  the  brandy  and  soda 
I  had  ordered  for  him. 

"Is  there  no  one  you  hate?"  I  .suggested;  "hate 
with  a  deadly  hatred.  No  one  you  wish  to  be  revenged 
on,  terribly  revenged  on  ?  " 

"  Can't  say  as  there  is,"  said  the  fa*  man  thought- 
fully. "  But  wait ;  yes,  by  the  blasting  blazes,  there's 
the  skirt  wot  put  my  show  on  the  blink.  I'd  give  a 
month  in  chokey  to  get  even  with  her." 

"  What  would  you  do  if  you  met  her?  "  I  demanded. 

"Wot  would  I  do?"  he  snarled,  and  his  cod-mouth 

opened  to  show  those  teeth  like  copper  and  verdigris 

clenched   in   venomous   hate ;   "  I'd   do  her   up,   that's 

wot  I  would  do."     He  banged  his  big,  fat  fist  down  on 

308 


THK  MANUFACTURE  OF  A  VILLAIN     809 


the  tal»U\  "  IM  pound  her  face  in.  Td  beat  her  to  a 
jiilv.  rd  leave  about  as  much  life  in  her  as  a  sick 
■fly/' 

"  Did  you  never  find  out  where  she  went?  '*  I  asked. 

'*  Nary  a  trace,"  he  said  vindictively.  *'  1  hiked  it 
over  here  to  see  if  I  could  get  on  her  tracks.  They 
say  if  you  wait  long  enough  by  the  Caffay-day-la-Pay 
corner  all  the  folks  you've  ever  known  will  come  along 
soiiu'  day.  Well,  I've  been  waiting  round  there  doing 
the  guide  business,  but  nary  a  trace." 

"  What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  where  she  is?  " 

"  I  should  say  you  was  a  good  pal." 

*'  Well,  then,  O'Flather,  I  saw  her  only  this  morn- 
ing " 
ing. 

"The  blazes!  Tell  me  where  an'  I'll  start  after 
her  right  now." 

"  Easy  on,  my  lad.  Don't  get  excited.  Let's  talk 
the  matter  over  coolly.  I'm  sure  it's  the  girl  I  saw 
in  the  doorway  of  your  Exhibition  that  night.  It 
struck  me  as  so  odd  I  inquired  her  name.  Let  me  see; 
it  was  Guin  .  .  .  Guin  ...  Ah !  Guinoval." 

"By  Christmas,  that's  her;  that's  her;  curse  her. 
Where  is  she?  " 

"  Wait  a  bit ;  wait  a  bit,  O'Flather.  Revenge  is  a 
beautiful  thing.  I  believe  in  it.  If  a  man  hits  you 
hit  him  back,  only  harder.  But  while  I  approve  your 
motive,  I  deprecate  your  method.  It's  too  primitive, 
my  dear  man,  too  brutally  primitive." 

"Wot  d'ye  mean?  D'ye  think  it's  too  much  to 
beat  her  up  after  the  dirty  trick  she  played  me?  " 

"  Keep  cool,  O'Flather.  Have  a  little  imagination. 
There  are  other  ways  that  you  could  hurt  her  far  more 
than  by  resorting  to  crude  violence.     She's  a  very  hon- 


310 


THE  PRETENDER 


est  girl,  I  believo.  Sets  a  great  deal  on  her  reputa- 
tion. Well,  then,  instead  of  striking  at  tlie  girl,  strike 
at  her  reputation." 

"Rut  how?     Wotter  you  getting  at?" 

"  It's  simple  enough.  These  days  the  popular  form 
of  villainy  is  White  Slavery.  Become  a  White  Slaver. 
What's  to  prevent  you  abducting  the  girl,  having  her 
taken  to  that  Establishment  you  so  strenuously  repre- 
sent—  your  Crystal  Palace?  Once  within  those  doors 
it's  •  ^tty  hard  for  her  to  get  out  again.  You  have  her 
at  .,  >  mercy  and  the  Institution  ought  to  pay  you 
hand.s(>nicly." 

"  But  it's  a  risky  business.  You  know  them  French 
;  v'dcfi  have  no  mercy  on  a  foreigner.  If  I  was  caught 
Id  get  it  in  the  neck." 

"  Don't  do  the  actual  abduction  yourself.  You're 
too  fat  and  too  conspicuous  to  do  the  job  yourself. 
Besides,  she  knows  you.  Get  three  of  these  bullies 
that  hang  around  the  Crystal  Palace  to  do  it  for  you. 
You  wait  there  till  they  come  with  the  girl." 

"  But  how  would  they  know  her?  " 

"That's  true.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do, 
O'Flathcr,  being  a  bit  of  a  villain  myself,  and  ready  to 
help  a  pal ;  I'll  go  with  your  cadets,  or  whatever  they 
are,  and  point  out  the  girl.  You  engage  your  men. 
We'll  all  go  down  in  a  taxi.  The  chauffeur  must  un- 
derstand that  he's  to  ask  no  questions.  When  the 
girl  comes  along  I  point  her  out.  Gaston  rushes  in 
with  a  chloroformed  rag.  Alphonse  and  Achille  grab 
her  arms.  Presto!  in  a  moment  she's  in  the  taxi.  In 
ten  minutes  she's  in  your  Crystal  Palace.  Is  it  not 
easy?" 

"  Seems  so,"  he  said  thoughtfully.     "  I  think  I  could 


vr^ 


Tin:  MANUFACTl  RK  OF  A  VILLAIN      311 

get  the  men  for  to-night.  Won't  two  do?  Sure  it 
needs  three?  " 

"Yes,"  I  said  thoughtfully;  "it  might  be  better 
even  with  four,  but  I  think  three  will  do.  I've  found 
that  she  goes  to  work  every  morning  about  two  o'clock, 
and  takes  the  same  road  always.  It's  dark  then,  and 
the  road's  almost  deserted.  I  can  be  at  the  Place  de 
rOpera  at  half-past  one,  when  you  can  meet  me  with 
vour  men  and  a  taxi.     How  will  that  do?  " 

"Right  O!  I'll  be  there.  To-night  then.  Half- 
past  one.  And  say!  tell  me  before  you  go  where- 
abouts this  abduction  business  is  going  to  be  done.  It 
don't  matter  to  me,  but  you  might  be  a  little  more  con- 
fidential.    Where's   she  working?  " 

"  She's  working  in  the  Holies  and  she  goes  by  the 

name  of  Seraphine  Guinoval." 

•  ♦♦••♦• 

The  night  was  come,  and  though  I  arrived  punc- 
tually at  the  rendezvous  O'Flatlur  and  his  myrmidons 
were  thtrc  before  me.  The  fat  man  was  tremendously 
excited  and  fearfully  nervous.  His  hand  shook  so  that 
he  spoiled  two  cigarettes  before  he  got  one  rolled  de- 
cently.    He  sank  his  voice  to  a  hoarse  whisper. 

His  accomplices  were  of  the  usual  type  of  souteneurs 
—  little,  dark,  dapperly-dressed  men  with  lantern- 
jawed  faces,  small  black  moustaches  and  cigarettes  in 
their  cynical  mouths.  Their  manner  was  sullenly  cool 
and  contemptuous  —  a  contempt  that  seemed  to  extend 
to  their  patron.  There  was  no  time  to  lose.  We  all 
bundled  into  the  waiting  taxi. 

"Good  luck  to  ye,"  said  O'Flather.  "I'll  be  off 
now  and  wait.  The  boys  know  where  to  take  the  jade. 
Once  they  get  her  into  the  taxi  the  rest  Is  easy.     I'll  be 


312 


THE  PRETENDER 


waititiff  tlierc  to  give  licr  the  glad  Itand,  and  extend, 
so  to  say,  tlie  hospitality  of  the  mansion.  You're  sure 
you  know  wliere  to  drop  on  her?  " 

"  Sure.  She's  as  regular  as  clock-work,  passing  the 
same  corner  and  always  alone.  Rely  on  that  part  of  it. 
The  rest  lies  with  your  satellites  and  with  you." 

"All  right,"  he  chuckled  malevolently.  "The 
thing's  as  good  as  done.  So  long  now.  See  you  to- 
morrow same  place." 

The  taxi  darted  off,  and  the  last  I  saw  of  my  villain 
was  his  immense  bull-dog  face  lividly  glowering  in  the 
up-turned  fur  collar  of  his  coat,  and  his  ham-like  hand 
waved  in  farewell. 

We  were  embarked  on  the  venture  now,  and  even  I 
felt  a  thrill  as  I  looked  at  the  dark,  dissolute  faces  of 
the  men  by  my  side.  At  that  moment  the  affair  be- 
gan to  seem  far  more  serious  than  I  had  bargained  for, 
and  I  almost  wished  myself  out  of  it.  But  it  was  too 
late  to  turn  back.     I  must  play  my  part  in  the  plot. 

I  had  selected  a  narrow  pavement  and  a  dark  door- 
way as  the  scene  of  operations.  It  would  be  very  easy 
for  three  men  lurking  there  to  rush  any  passer-by  into 
a  taxi  at  the  edge  of  the  pavement  without  attracting 
attention.  As  I  explained,  I  could  sec  my  three  braves 
agreed  with  me.     They  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

"  Parbleu!  It's  too  easy,"  they  said,  and  retiring 
into  the  doorway  they  lit  frefeh  cigarettes. 

How  slowly  the  time  seemed  to  pass!  I  paced  up 
and  down  the  pavement  anxiously.  Several  times  I 
felt  like  bolting.  The  false  beard  I  had  donned  was 
so  uncomfortable;  and,  after  all,  I  began  to  think,  it 
was  rather  tough  on  my  hdh-rture.  There  in  the 
darkened    doorway    I    could    see    the    glow    of    three 


THE  MANUFACTURE  OF  A  VILLAIN     313 


riffarottcs,  and  I  could  Imagine  the  contemptuous, 
Slurring  eyes  behind  them.  Hunching  forward,  the 
c'haufFeur  seemed  asleep.  Thi-  street  was  silent,  dark, 
(listrtcd.  Then  suddenly  I  heard  a  step  ...  it  was 
her. 

Ves,  there  was  no  doubt.  Passing  under  a  distant 
lamp  I  had  a  convincing  glimpse  of  her.  I  could  not 
mistake  the  massive  figure  waddling  along  in  the  black 
serge  costume  of  the  market  women,  with  the  black 
shawl  over  her  shoulders,  the  black  umbrella  in  the 
hand.  She  was  hatless  too,  and  carried  a  satchel. 
All  this  I  saw  in  a  vivid  moment  ere  I  turned  to  my 
bullies  and  whispered  huskily: 

"  Heady  there,  boys  !     She  comes." 

My  excitenunt  seemed  to  communicate  itself  to  them. 
Tiieir  cigarettes  dropped,  and  Alphonse  peered  out  al- 
most nervously. 

"  Sapristi!  that  her? "  he  exclaimed  hoarsely. 
"  Vou  are  sure.  Monsieur?" 

"  Yes,  yes ;  sure,  sure.     She's  a  large  girl." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if  to  say:  "  Monsieur, 
otir  patron,  he  has  a  droll  taste  among  the  women,  par 
cxemplc.  But  that  is  not  our  affair.  Steady  there 
Gaston  and  Alphonse!     Get  ready  for  the  spring." 

The  three  men  were  tense  and  covchant;  the 
chauffeur  snored  steadily;  the  unsuspecting  footsteps 
drew  nearer  and  nearer.  Crossing  the  street,  I  stood 
in  the  shadow  on  the  other  side. 

What  happened  in  the  next  half  minute  I  can  only 
surmise.  I  saw  three  dark  shadows  launch  themselves 
on  another  shadow.  I  heard  a  scream  of  surprise  that 
was  instantly  choked  by  n  hairy  masculine  hand.  I 
heard  another  hoarse  yell  as  a  pair  of  strong  teeth  met 


iUi 


THE  pretf:\der 


in  tliaf  iiiasniUno  hand.  I  heard  volleys  of  fierce  pro- 
fane (iailic  expletives,  grunts,  groans,  yelps  of  pain  and 
the  unniistakal)Ie  whacking  of  an  umbrella.  Evidently 
my  desperadoes  weren't  having  it  all  their  own  way. 
The  bigger  shadow  seemed  to  be  holding  the  smaller 
ones  at  bay,  striking  with  whirling  blows  at  them  every 
time  they  tried  to  rush  in.  The  smaller  shadows 
seemed  to  be  less  and  less  inclined  to  rush  in;  each  was 
evidently  nursing  some  sore  and  grievous  hurt,  and  the 
joy  of  battle  did  not  glow  in  them.  There  is  no  doubt 
they  would  have  retired  discomfited  had  not  their 
doughty  antagonist  suddenly  tripped  and  fallen  with  a 
resounding  thump  backwards.  Then  with  a  mutual 
yell  of  triumph  they  all  knelt  on  her  chest. 

She  was  down  now,  but  not  defeated.  Still  she 
fought  from  the  ground,  but  their  united  weight  was 
too  much  for  her.  She  fell  exhausted.  Then  with 
main  strength  they  hauled,  pushed,  lifted  her  into  the 
taxi,  and  piling  in  after  her,  panting  and  bleeding  from 
a  score  of  wounds,  they  sat  on  her  as  fearfully  as  one 
might  sit  on  an  exhausted  wild  cat.  The  taxi  glided 
away,  and  I  saw  them  no  more. 

As  to  the  sequel,  I  found  it  all  in  the  columns  of  the 
Matin  two  mornings  after.  Herewith  is  a  general 
translation: 

"  Madame  Seraphine  Guinoval  is  a  buxom  brunette  who 
carries  on  a  flourisliing  business  in  Lcs  Halles.  To  look  at 
her  no  one  would  suspect  her  of  inspiring  an  ardent  and 
reckless  passion;  yet  early  yesterday  morning  Madame 
Guinoval  was  the  victim  of  an  abduction  such  as  might  have 
occurred  in  the  pages  of  romance. 

"  It  was  while  she  was  going  to  her  work  in  the  very 
early  morning  that  the  too  fascinating  fair  one  was  set 


THE  MANUFACTUUI-:  01'  A  VILLAIN      iilo 


upon  by  three  young  apaches  and  conveyed  to  a  well-known 
temi)le  of  Venus.     Mau  >me  Guinoval  appears  to  have  given 

j;()od  account  of  herself,  judging  from  the  condition 
.  her  assailants  as  they  confronted  the  magistrate  this 
morning.  All  three  suffer  from  bites,  one  received  as  he 
s.it  on  the  lady's  head;  their  faces  are  scratched  as  by  a 
vigorous  young  cougar;  two  have  eyes  in  mourning,  while 
each  claims  to  have  received  severe  bodily  injuries.  A 
more  sorry  trio  of  kidnappers  never  was  seen. 

"  But  their  plight  is  nothing  to  that  of  the  instigator 
of  the  plot  —  a  certain  Irish  American,  known  as  the 
Colonel  Offlazaire,  a  well-known  boulevardier.  He,  it 
seems,  became  so  infatuated  with  the  charms  of  the  fair 
Marchande  d'escargots  that  with  the  impetuous  gallantry 
of  his  race  he  was  determined  to  possess  her  .at  all  costs. 
Alas!  luckless,  lovelorn  swain!  He  is  now  being  patched 
up  in  the  hospital. 

"  The  real  trouble  began,  it  seems,  when  they  got  the 
Guinoval  safely  within  that  pension  for  young  l.ndies  kept 
by  Madame  Lebrun  on  the  rue  Montmartre.  They  put 
her  in  a  dark  room  and  turned  the  key  in  the  door.  Then 
to  her  entered  the  Chevalier  Offlazaire,  locked  the  door,  and 
turned  on  the  light.  He  then  must  have  entered  into  a 
violent  argument  with  the  fair  one,  for  presently  were 
heard  sounds  of  commotion  from  behind  the  closed  door,  a 
ni.an's  voice  pleading  for  mercy,  and  the  smashing  of 
furniture.  So  fierce,  indeed,  did  the  turmoil  become,  that 
l)resently  the  proprietress  of  the  establishment,  supported 
by  a  bodyguard  of  her  fair  pensionnaires,  felt  constrained 
to  open  the  door  with  her  private  key. 

"  \ot  a  moment  too  soon !  For  the  unfortunate  Cheva- 
lier Colonel  was  already  hors  de  combat,  while  over  him, 
the  personification  of  outraged  virtue^  poised  the  amazonian 
Seraphine,  whirling  a  chair  around  her  head  in  a  berserker 
rage.  Terrified.  Madame  Lebrun  and  her  protegees  fled 
screaming;  then  the  infuriated  lady  of  the  Hallet  pro- 


316 


THE  PRETENDER 


ceeded  to  reduce  the  establishment  to  ruins.  Verj*  little 
that  was  hrcakahlc  escaped  that  flail-like  chair  swung  bv 
outraged  virtue.  Particularly  did  she  devote  her  attention 
to  the  room  known  as  the  Crystal  Palace,  where  she 
smashed  all  the  mirrors  that  compose  the  walls,  and  then 
ended  by  reducing  to  ruins  the  magnificent  candelabra. 
Her  frenzy  of  destruction  was  only  interrupted  by  the  ar- 
rival of  the  police. 

"  In  consequence  of  the  serio-comic  character  of  the 
affair,  and  its  disastrous  effects  on  those  who  promoted  it, 
the  magistrate  was  inclined  to  be  lenient.  A  nominal  fine 
of  fifty  francs  was  imposed  on  each  of  the  three  ac- 
complices, while  the  illustrious  O'Flather  was  fined  two 
hundred  francs,  and  found  himself  bO  ridiculously  notorious 
that  he  departed  for  pastures  new." 

(As  for  Madame  Guinovnl,  I  think  she  enjoyed  the 
whole  thing  immensely.) 


CHAPTER  IX 


A  CHEQUE  AND  A  CHECK 

One  morning  I  received  a  cheque  for  nine  hundred 
dollars  from  Widgeon  &  Co. —  payment  for  The  Great 
Quktnsy  now  running  serially  in  the  Uplift.  Did  I 
wave  it  in  the  air?  Did  I  do  a  war-dance  of  delight? 
No.  I  looked  at  it  with  sober  sadness.  The  struggle 
was  over.  Henceforward  it  was  the  easy  money,  the 
work  that  brought  in  ten  times  its  meed  of  reward. 
Alas!  how  I  was  doomed  to  prosperity!  I  banked  the 
cheque  with  a  heavy  heart. 

Always  was  it  thus.  1  vowed  each  book  would  be 
my  last.  I  would  drop  out  of  the  best-seller  writing 
game,  take  to  the  country  and  raise  calves.  Then, 
sooner  or  later  the  desire  would  come  to  leap  into  the 
lists  once  more.  There  was  usually  a  month's  bore- 
dom between  books,  and  I  would  go  at  it  again.  "  Per- 
haps," I  would  say,  "  I'll  be  able  to  write  a  failure  this 
time." 

So,  having  got  The  Great  Quietus  off  my  hands  al- 
ready, I  was  having  this  feeling  of  energy  going  to 
waste.  One  day  then,  as  I  walked  along  the  Avenue  de 
la  Grande  Armee,  I  happened  to  stop  in  front  of  an 
automobile  agency.  There  in  the  window  was  dis- 
played the  neatest  voiturette  I  had  ever  seen.  It  had 
motor-bicycle  wheels,  a  tiny  tonneau  for  two,  an  engine 
strong  enough  for  ordinary  touring.  It  was  called 
the  liabi/  Mignonne,  and  I  fell  in  love  with  it  on  the 

spot. 

817 


318 


THE  PRETENDER 


As  I  was  admiring  the  dainty  midget  two  American 
wouKu  stopped  in  front  of  the  window. 

"Isn't  it  just  tiie  cutest  thing?"  said  one. 

"  Isn't  it  just  a  perfect  darling?  "  said  the  other. 

Then  they  passed  on,  leaving  me  tingling  with  pride 
at  their  verdict ;  for  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  I  had 
iii.ide  up  my  mind  that  tl)is  diminutive  runabout  should 
belong  to  me.  Ila !  that  was  it.  I  was  seeking  for  a 
new  character  in  which  to  express  my  energy.  Well, 
I  would  become  a  dashing  motorist  in  a  leather  cap 
and  gtggles,  swishing  along  in  my  Baby  Mignonnc. 
Yet  I  hesitated  a  moment. 

The  price  was  thirty-eight  hundred  francs.  That 
would  not  leave  much  out  of  my  forty-five.  It  seemed 
a  little  indiscreet  in  a  man  who  had  been  fighting  the 
wolf  so  long  to  spend  the  first  decent  bit  of  money  he 
made  in  an  automobile;  a  man  who  lived  in  a  garret, 
whose  wardrobe  was  not  any  too  extensive,  and  whose 
wife,  that  very  morning,  liad  finished  a  hat  for  winter 
wear  with  her  own  hands.  Ah !  now  I  came  to  think  of 
it,  she  had  looked  so  pale  leaning  over  her  cherry 
ribands.  Now  I  understood  my  sudden  impulse.  It 
was  for  her  I  was  buying  it ;  so  that  I  might  drive  her 
out;  so  that  she  might  get  lots  of  fresh  air;  so  that 
the  roses  might  bloom  in  her  cheeks  agai  %  With  a 
sense  of  splendid  virtue,  I  said  to  the  agent :  "  I'll 
take  it." 

Then  I  halted:  "But  I  don't  know  how  to  drive 
one,"  I  said  prudently.  "  How  do  I  know  I  can  get 
a  chauffeur's  certificate?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  the  agent,  "  that  was  easy.  There  was 
a  school  for  chauffeurs  next  door,  where  for  a  hundred 
francs  they  qualified  you  for  the  licence." 


A  CHEQUE  AND  A  CHECK 


319 


So  I  promised  the  man  I  would  return  when  I  could 
drive,  and  made  arrangements  to  begin  lessons  on  the 
following  day. 

I  returned  home  full  of  my  new  hobby.  At  all 
costs  I  must  keep  it  a  secret  from  her.  Her  economical 
soul  would  r  bel  at  my  splendid  sacrifice.  Then  again 
I  wanted  the  surprise  to  be  a  dramatic  one.  I  would 
tell  her  one  day  to  meet  me  at  the  Place  de  I'Opera, 
and  as  she  lingered,  patiently  waiting  for  me  to  come 
plodding  along  on  "  train  onze,''  up  1  would  dash  on 
my  Baby  Mignonne.  Removing  my  goggles,  I  would 
laugh  into  her  amazed  face.  Then  I  would  remark  in  a 
casual  way : 

"  I  thought  you  might  be  too  tired  to  walk  home, 
so  I  brought  you  round  your  car.  Jump  in  quickly. 
We're  blocking  up  the  traffic." 

So  clearly  did  I  see  the  picture  that  I  chuckled  over 
my  coffee  and  Camembert. 

"What  make  you  so  amuse?"  she  asked  curiously. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  I  said  hurriedly.  "  I  was  ju't  think- 
ing of  a  little  business  I  have  in  hand." 

I  continued  to  chuckle  throughout  the  day,  and  my 
wife  continued  to  wonder  at  this  change  in  her  husband. 
(Here  let  me  change  for  a  moment  from  my  view  point 
to  hers.)  She  never  pryed  into  his  affairs,  but  never- 
theless she  watched  him  curiously.  .^  nd  day  by  day 
his  conduct  was  still  more  puzzling.  Although  an  in- 
veterate late  riser,  he  sprang  from  bed  at  half-past 
seven  and  dressed  quickly.  Then  after  a  hurried  break- 
fast he  said:  "  I've  got  an  engagement  at  nine.  Don't 
wait  for  me."  She  did  not  dare  ask  him  where  he  was 
gt;i»g,  but  she  saw  an  eager  glow  in  his  eyes,  a  gladness 
as  of  one  hastening  to  a  tryst. 


320 


THE  PRETENDER 


And  when  ho  returned  liow  joyous  he  was!  With 
what  a  hearty  appetite  lie  attacked  his  hinch !  How 
demonstrative  in  his  affection!  (Wives,  when  hus- 
bands grow  demonstrative  in  tlieir  affection,  begin  to 
get  suspicious.) 

She  marked,  too,  his  unusual  preoccupation.  He 
had  something  on  his  mind ;  something  he  was  des- 
perately anxious  to  keep  from  lier.  He  seemed  afraid 
to  meet  her  eye.     She  began  to  be  anxious,  even  afraid. 

Next  morning  he  arose  at  the  same  time  and  went 
off  again  on  his  mysterious  business.  She  fretted;  she 
worried.  She  knew  he  was  wilful  and  headstrong; 
she  knew  he  would  always  be  an  enigma  to  her; 
she  loved  him  for  that  very  quality  of  aloofness; 
yet  over  all  she  loved  him  because  of  his  caprice,  be- 
cause some  day  she  dreaded  she  might  lose  him.  He 
had  moods  she  feared,  subtle,  harsh  moods ;  then  again 
he  was  helpless  and  simple  as  a  child. 

Yes,  she  had  never  boon  able  to  fathom  his  whimsical 
changes,  and  he  certainly  was  greatly  excited  about 
this  affair.  It  could  not  be  that  he  was  incubating  a 
new  novel,  for  that  only  made  him  irritable.  Now 
his  eyes  expressed  a  rare  pleasure.  What,  O,  what 
could  this  secret  business  be? 

(  So  much  for  what  I  imagined  to  be  the  '*  Psychology 
of  Anastasia  "  at  this  moment.     To  return  to  myself.) 

I  was  certainly  getting  a  great  deal  of  fun  out  of  my 
lessons.  The  change  from  book-making  to  machinery 
was  a  salutary  one,  and  every  day  saw  me  more  en- 
thusiastic. There  in  the  quiet  roads  of  the  Bois-do- 
Boulogne  I  practised  turning  and  backing,  accom- 
panied by  an  instructor  who  controlled  an  extra  set 


A  CHEQTE  AND  A  CHECK 


'.y.n 


of  hr.ikis  in  case  of  uciidtnt.  I  was  hrginnin^  to  Ik- 
vciv  nroiul  of  niVM-lf  as  I  bowKd  around  the  Hois, 
and  Ma>  ivon  Intoniing  conceited  when  one  morning 
my  professor  said  to  nic: 

"  To-morrow,  Monsieur,  you  must  come  in  the  after- 
noon instead  of  the  morning.  Then  we  will  drive 
along  the  Champs  Klysees  and  the  boulevards,  for  it 
is  necessary  you  iiavo  some  experience  in  handling 
the  automobile  in  the  midst  of  traffic.  On  the  morning 
after,  the  Inspector  will  come  to  examine  you  for  your 
certificate." 

I  was  tremendously  excited.  Instead  of  rising  early 
tile  following  day  I  visibly  astonislied  Anastasia  by 
sKtping  till  ten  o'clock.  But  after  lunch  I  announcetl 
that  I  was  going  out  and  would  not  be  back  to  sup- 
p«r. 

I  saw  her  face  fall.  Doubtless  she  thought :  "  His 
mvxterious  business  has  only  been  transferred  from 
forenoon  to  afternoon.  I  thought  this  morning  when 
he  did  not  get  w^  it  was  finished.  It  seems  only  the 
liour  is  changed.     But  I  will  say  nothing." 

So  she  watched  me  from  the  window  as  I  went  away, 
and  I  believe  the  position  must  have  been  getting  on 
my  nerves  for  that  afternoon,  amid  the  bewildering 
traffic  of  Lcs  Etoiles,  I  lost  my  head.  Trying  to  avoid 
a  hand-barrow,  I  crashed  into  a  cab,  and  of  course  the 
emerg.ncy  brakes  refused  to  work.  Considerable  dam- 
age was  done.  There  were  two  policemen  taking  down 
names,  a  huge  crowd,  much  excited  gesticulation.  In 
the  end  I  promised  to  call  at  the  office  of  the  cab  pro- 
j)rietor  and  pay  for  the  damage.  Sadly  I  drove  back 
to  the  garage.     Never,  I   thought,  should  I  pass  my 


ii^il 


THE  PRETENDEH 


oxHmination  on  the  morrow.  Hut  my  instructor 
clitirtd  me  up,  and  I  began  to  look  forward  to  it  hope- 
fully. 

I  arrived  home  trembling  with  excitement.  I  could 
hardl3'  eat  my  supper,  and  rose  soon  after  it  was  over. 

**  I've  got  an  engagement  this  evening,"  I  said  nerv- 
ously;  "I  may  be  late;  don't  wait  up  for  me." 

I  was  conscious  how  furtive  and  suspicious  my  man- 
ner was.  I  turned  away  to  avoid  her  straight,  pene- 
trating gaze. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  where  you  are  going?  "  she  said 
quietly. 

"  Oh,  just  out  on  business,"  I  said  irritably.  "  I 
have  a  matter  to  attend  to." 

With  this  illuminating  infoniiation  I  went  off.  I 
had  the  in)pression  that  she  was  restraining  herself 
with  a  great  effort.     Well,  it  was  certainly  trying. 

I  paid  the  proprietors  of  the  cab  a  chwiue  for  two 
hun('-ed  francs.  Then  it  was  necessary  to  go  round 
and  inform  the  police  that  everything  had  been  settled. 
Then  it  seemed  fit  to  promote  a  good  feeling  all  round 
by  ordering  a  bottle  of  champagne.  Then  one  must 
drink  to  my  success  as  a  chauffeur  in  another  bottle. 
When  I  reached  home  it  was  after  midnight  and  I  was 
terribly  tired.  The  excitement  of  the  day  had  worn 
me  out ;  and,  besides,  there  was  the  worry  over  the  ex- 
amination in  the  morning.  The  wine  too  had  made 
me  very  drowsy. 

Anastasia  lay  silent  on  her  bed.  She  did  not  move 
as  I  entered  so  I  supposed  she  slept.  Making  as  little 
noise  as  possible,  I  undressed.  As  I  blew  out  the 
candle  my  last  impression  was  of  the  exceeding  cosiness 
of  our  little  room.     Tarticularly  I  noted  our  new  dress- 


A  CIIKgUi:  AND  A  CIIEC  K 


323 


ing  table  of  walnut,  the  armoirc  with  mirror  doors, 
and  the  frrsli  ciirtaiiis  of  cream  cretonne  with  a  design 
of  ro>es.  "It's  home,"  I  thought,  **  and  how  glad  I 
am  to  get  hack  to  it ! "  Then  I  crept  between  the 
sheets,  and  feeling  as  if  I  could  sleep  for  ever  and 
ever,  I  launched  into  a  troiibhd  sea  of  dreams. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

It  seemed  as  if  some  one  was  shaking  me  furiously. 
Opening  my  eyes  I  saw  that  it  was  Anastasia. 

"What  is  it.'*  Fire?  Burglars? "  I  exclaimed.  I 
had  always  made  up  my  mind  in  the  case  of  the  latter 
I  would  l«)ck  the  bedroom  door  and  inteniew  them 
through  the  keyhole.  I  am  not  a  coward,  but  I  have 
a  very  strongly  developed  sense  of  self-preservation. 

"  No,  no ;  something  more  serious  than  that,"  she 
answered  in  a  choking  voice. 

"What  then?     Are  you  sick?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  sick  of  everysing.  I  waken  you  up  be- 
cause you  talk  in  your  sleep." 

"Do  I?  Seems  to  me  you  needn't  waken  me  up 
just  for  that.     W'hat  was  I  saying?" 

"  Saying?     You  talk  all  the  time  about  her." 

"Hit?     Who?" 

"  Oh,  do  not  try  to  deceive  me  any  more.  I  know 
all." 

"You  know  more  than  I  do,"  I  said,  astonished. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Oh,  do  I  not  know  you  have  a  maitrcsse?  Do  I 
not  know  you  go  to  see  her  every  day?  Do  I  not  know 
you  are  spending  all  your  money  with  her?  For  two 
weeks  have  I  borne  it,  seeing  you  go  every  day  to  keep 
your  shameful  assignations  with  her.     Though  it  was 


324 


THE  PRETENDER 


almost  driving  mc  mad  I  li.ivc  said  no  word.  Hoping 
that  you  would  tire  of  her,  that  you  would  come  hack 
to  me,  I  have  tried  to  bear  it  patiently.  Oh,  I  have 
borne  so  much !  But  when  it  comes  to  lying  by  your 
side,  and  hearing  you  cry  out  and  murmur  expressions 
of  love  for  her,  I  can  bear  it  no  longer.  Please  ex- 
cuse me  for  waking  you,  but  j'ou  torture  me  so." 

T  stared.  This  was  an  Anastasia  altogether  new  to 
me.  Her  voice  had  a  strange  note  of  despair.  Where 
had  I  heard  it  before.''  Ah!  that  night  on  the  Em- 
bankment, when  she  was  such  a  hunted,  desperate 
thing.  Never  had  I  heard  it  since.  Yet  I  knew  the 
primal  passion  which  lies  deep  in  every  woman  had 
awakened.  I  was  silent,  and  no  doubt  my  silence 
seemed  like  guilt.  But  the  fact  was  —  her  accusation 
had  been  launched  in  tumultuous  French,  and  I  was 
innocently  trying  to  translate  it  into  English. 

"  What  was  I  saying?  "  1  said  at  last. 

"Oh,  you  cry  all  night,  'Mignonne!  Mignonne! 
Petite  Mignonne!'  You  say:  'You  are  love;  you 
arc  darleen.'  And  sometimes  you  say:  '  You  are  cute 
little  sing.'  What  is  'cute  little  sing'.'*  Somesing 
very  passivnnantc  I  know.  You  have  nevaire  call  me 
zat.  And  nevaire  since  we  marry  you  call  me 
Mignonne." 

Suddenly  it  all  burst  upon  me,  and  I  laughed.  It 
did  not  strike  me  how  utterly  heartless  my  laugh  must 
have  sounded. 

"  So    that's    it.     You've    found   out    all    about    Mig- 


nonne.' 


i  " 


'•  Yes,  yes.  Who  is  this  petite  Mignonne?  I  kill 
her.  I  kill  myself.  Tell  me  who  she  is.  I  go  to  her. 
I  beg  her  not  to  take  you  from  me.     I  'ave  you  first. 


A  (  HEQT'K  AM)  A  ("HECK 


f\'iri 


Yon  belong  to  mo.  No  one  sluill  'avc  you  but  in«'. 
Till  me  who  slic  is." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  I  said,  avoiding  her  ga/e. 

"Zen  it  is  true?  You  have  niaitresne?  You  have 
(Iveeive  me  I  Oh,  what  a  poor,  poor  girl  I  am!  Oli, 
God,  help  me!" 

She  was  sobbing  bitterly.  Now,  I  am  so  constituted 
that  though  I  am  keenly  sensitive  to  stage  sobs  and 
book  sobs,  domestic  sobs  only  irritate  nu.  Outside  I 
can  revel  in  sentiment,  but  at  home  I  seem  to  resent 
anything  that  goes  beyond  the  scope  of  everyd;;}'  hum- 
(inun.  I  am  tear-proof  (which  is  often  a  mighty  good 
thing  for  a  husband)  ;  so  my  only  answer  was  to  pull  the 
blankets  over  my  head,  and  say  in  a  rough  voice : 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  shut  up  and  let's  have  a  little 
sleep." 

But  there  was  going  to  be  no  sleep  for  me  that 
night,  and  to  have  one's  sleep  invaded  would  make  a 
lamb  spit  in  the  face  of  a  lion. 

"Are  you  going  to  see  her  to-morrow.''"  she  de- 
manded tragically. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  with  a  disgusted  groan.  Realh'  the 
whole  thing  was  becoming  too  ridiculous.  All  along 
I  had  been  irritated  at  her  jealousy,  the  more  so  as 
there  had  been  certain  grounds  for  it.  It  had  been  the 
only  fault  I  had  found  with  her,  and  often  I  had  been 
stung  to  the  point  of  protest.  Now  all  my  pent-up 
resentment  surged  to  the  surface. 

"  Oh,  please,  darleen,  excuse  me ;  please  say  you 
won't  go.     Stay  wiz  3-our  leetlc  wife,  darleen." 

"  I've  got  to  go ;  it's  important." 

"  Promise  me  zen  you  shall  see  her  for  the  last  time. 
Promise  mi  you'll  say  good-bye." 


390 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  T  can't  premise  tliat." 

•'Vou  love  her?" 

"  Ye  —  es.     I  love  her." 

My  iiiliul  WHS  nifult?  up.  There  is  no  cure  for 
jealousy  like  ridicule.  It  would  be  n  little  hard,  but 
I  would  keep  the  thing  up  for  another  day.  I  would 
let  matters  come  to  a  climax,  then  I  would  trium- 
phantly drive  round  on  my  little  voiturette  and  say, 
pointing  to  the  blue  and  gold  name  plate: 

"There!  Allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  *  Little 
Migiionne.' " 

The  whirl  of  the  alarm-clock  put  an  end  to  my 
efforts  to  get  some  sleep,  so  up  I  sprang  in  by  no  means 
the  best  of  tempers.  My  examination  at  nine,  and  I 
had  had  a  wretched  night. 

Anastasia  got  up  meekly  to  prepare  the  coffee.  I 
ate  without  saying  a  word,  while  she  even  excelled 
me  in  the  eloquence  of  her  silence.  Never  eating  a 
mouthful,  she  sat  there  with  her  hands  clasped  in 
her  lap,  her  eyes  downcast.  She  seemed  to  be  restrain- 
ing herself  very  hard.  The  domestic  atmosphere  was 
decidedly  tense. 

At  last  I  rose  and  put  on  my  coat. 

"  Then  you're  going?  "  she  said,  breathing  hard. 

"  Yes,  I'm  going." 

At  that  her  pent-up  passion  burst  forth.  She  cried 
in  French : 

"  If  you  go  to  her,  if  you  see  that  woman  again,  I 
never  want  you  to  come  back.  I  never  want  to  see  you 
again.     You  can  go  forever." 

"  You  forget,"  I  said,  "  this  is  my  house.'* 

She  bowed  her  head.  "  Yes,  you  are  right.  I  am 
nothing  in   it  hut  a  housekeeper  you  do  not  have  to 


A  CHEQUE  AND  A  CHECK             327 

fr.vo  wagt's  to,  a  convenience  for  you.     But  that  will 

hv  all  right ;  I  will  go." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.     "  Really,  you're  too  ab- 

for 

surd." 

but 

Suddenly  she  came  to  me  and  threw  her  arms  around 

uld 

nie,  looking  frantically  into  my  eyes. 

im- 

"  Tell  nie,  tell  me,  do  you  not  love  me  ?  " 

ay, 

I  softly  unloosened  her  grasp.     An  actress  on  the 

stage   can   do   justice   to   these   emotional   scenes.     In 

ttle 

real  life,  a  little  woman   in  a  peignoir,  with  hair  di- 

shevelled, only  makes  a  hash  of  them. 

my 

"  Really,"  I  said  with  some  annoyance,  "  I  wish  you 

ans 

would  cease  to  play  the  injured  wife.     You*re  saying 

d  I 

the  very  things  I've  been  putting  into  the  mouths  of 

my  characters  for  the  last  five  years.     They  don't  seem 

I 

real  to  me." 

lied 

"Tell  me.     Do  you  love  me?*' 

?  a 

"  Why  verge  on  the  sentimental?     Have  I  ever,  since 

in 

we  were  married,  been  guilty  of  one  word  of  love  to- 

ftin- 

wards  you?  " 

ras 

"  You  have  not." 

"  Yet  we  have  been  happy  —  at  least  I  have.     Then 

let   us   go   on   like   sensible,   married   people   and   take 

things  for  granted." 

"  If  you  do  not  love  me,  why  did  you  marry  me?  " 

ried 

"Well,  you  know  very  well  why.     I  married  you 

because  having  saved  you  from  a  watery  grave,  I  was 

n,  I 

to  a  certain  extent  responsible  for  you.     It  was  up  to 

you 

me  to  do  something,  and  it  seemed  to  be  the  easiest 

way  out  of  the  difficulty." 

"Was  that  all?" 

am 

"  No,  perhaps  not  all.     I  wanted  some  one  to  cook 

•  to 

for  me.     You  know  how  I  loathe  eating  at  restaurants.'* 

5 

328 


THE  PRETF.XDER 


"  Then  you  did  not  learn  to  care  for  me  afterwards?  " 
"  Why    as    to    that    I    never    stopped    to    consider. 
Really   it  never  occurred  to  me.     I  was  quite  happy 
and  contented.     And  I  had  my  work  to  think  of.     You 
know  that  takes  all  emotional  expression  out  of  me." 
"  And  now  yon  love  this  Mignonne?  " 
"Hum!     \e  —  es,  I  love  Petite  Mignonne." 
"  Oh,  I  rannot  bear  it !     I  have  come  to  love  you 
so  much.     Try,  try,  to  geeve  her  up,  darken.     It  will 
kic)  me  if  ynu  do  not." 

Here  she  sank  on  her  knees,  holding  on  to  the  skirts 
of  my  coat. 

*'  I  —  It's  too  late  to  give  her  up  now." 
"  Then,  you're  going?  "     She  still  clung  to  me. 
I  disengaged  myself.     "  Yes,  I'm  going." 
She  rose  to  her  feet.     She  was  like  a  little   Sarah 
Bernhardt,  all  passion,  tragic  intensity. 

"  Then  go !  shameful  man.  Go  to  the  woman  you 
love.  I  never  want  to  see  you  again.  But  know  that 
you  have  broken  my  heart !  Know  that  however  happy 
you  may  be  there  is  never  more  happiness  'or  mc!" 

With  these  words  ringing  in  my  ears  I  closed  the 
door  behind  me.  Poor  little  girl !  Well,  it  was  tough 
on  her,  but  she  must  really  learn  to  curb  that  emo- 
tional temperament.  And  after  all,  it  was  only  for  a 
few  hours  more.  I  would  show  her  how  foolish  she 
had  been,  and  she  would  forever  after  be  cured  of 
jealousy.  With  this  thought  I  hurried  off  to  my  ex- 
amination. 

I  found  the  Inspector  to  be  a  most  genial  individual 
who  desired  nothing  more  than  that  I  should  pass;  so, 
profiting  by  my  mishap  of  the  day  previous,  I  acquitted 
mvself  to  admiration.    Elated  with  success,  I  was  return- 


A  CHKQT'E  A\D  A  CHECK 


329 


lUfT  nuTiily  hoiiic  wl-on  sufldtnly  I  remcnibert'd  the  il<»- 
iiustic  cloud  of  the  morning.  My  conscience  pricked  nie. 
1\  rhiips  after  all  1  had  been  a  little  harsh.  Perhaps 
in  the  heat  of  the  moment  I  had  said  things  I  did  not 
mean.  Well,  slie  had  never  resented  anything  of  the 
kind  before.  By  the  time  I  reached  home  she  would 
have  forgotten  all  about  it.  I  would  hear  her  hurried 
run  to  the  door  to  greet  me.  "  Hello !  Little  Thing," 
I  would  say.  And  then  she  would  kiss  me,  just  as  lov- 
ingly a-i  ever.  Oh,  I  was  so  confident  of  her  desperate 
atf'edion ! 

Hut,  as  I  reached  the  door,  there  was  an  ominous 

stillness  within. 

'•  She  is  trying  to  frighten  me,"  I  thought ;  yet  my 
hand  trembled  as  I  put  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"Hello,  Little  Thing!' 

No  reply.  A  silence  that  somehow  sickened  me; 
then  a  sudden  fear.  Perhaps  I  would  find  her  dead, 
killed  by  her  own  hand  in  a  moment  of  despair.  But, 
as  I  hurriedly  hunted  the  rooms,  the  sickening  feeling 
vanished,  for  nowhere  could  1  find  any  trace  of  her. 
The  breakfast  things  were  on  the  tabic  just  as  I  bad 
lift  them.  Everytiiing  was  the  same  .  .  .  yet  stay! 
there  was  a  note  addressed  to  nic. 

Again  that  deadly  sickness.  I  could  scarce  tear 
open  tile  envelope.  There  was  a  long  letter  written 
in  French  in  an  unsteady  hand,  and  blurred  with  many 
tears.     Here  is  what  I  read: 

"  I  am  leaving  your  house,  where  I  am  only  in  the  way. 
Now  you  may  bring  your  Mignonne  or  any  one  else  you 
wish,  I  would  not  stand  for  a  moment  between  you  and 
your  happiness. 

"  For  a  long  time  I  have  felt  keenly  your  coldness  and 


\ 


SiiO 


THE  PRETF.NDER 


indiff'erence,  but  I  Iiave  siifTcrcd  it  because  I  thought  it 
was  due  to  the  difference  of  race  between  us.  Now  tliat  1 
know  you  do  not  love  me,  I  can  remain  no  longer.  I  do 
not  think  you  will  ever  make  any  one  hai)))y.  You  are  too 
selfish.  Your  work  is  like  a  vampire.  It  sucks  away  all 
your  emotions,  and  leaves  you  witli  no  feeling  for  those 
who  love  you. 

"  I  have  tried  to  please  you,  to  make  you  care  for  me, 
and  I  have  failed.  I  can  try  no  more.  You  will  never 
see  me  again,  for  I  am  going  away.  I  feel  I  cannot  make 
you  happy,  and  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  drag  on  you.  You 
must  not  fear  for  me.  I  can  work  for  a  living,  as  I  did 
before.  Do  not  try  to  seek  me  out.  I  am  leaving  Paris. 
You  can  get  a  divorce  very  easily,  then  you  can  marry 
some  one  more  worthy  of  you.  I  will  always  love  you, 
and  bless  you  and  bless  you.     For  the  last  time, 

"  Your  heart-broken  Wife." 

I  sat  down  and  tried  to  collect  mv  thoughts.  I 
turned  to  the  letter  and  read  it  again.  No;  there  it 
was,  pitilessly  plain.  I  was  paralyse<l,  crushed  by  an 
immense  self-pity.  In  fiction  I  would  have  made  the 
deserted  husband  tear  his  hair,  and  cry,  "Curse  her: 
oh,  curse  her ! "  Then  tear  her  picture  down  from 
the  wall,  and  fall  sobbing  over  it.  If  there  had  been 
a  child  to  cling  to  him  it  would  have  been  all  the  more 
effective.  But  this  was  reality.  I  did  none  of  these 
things.     I  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  Well,  if  that's  not  the  limit !  "  I  cried.  "  Who'd 
have  thought  she'd  have  so  much  spirit.  But  she'll 
come  back.     Of  course  she'll  come  back." 

So  I  sat  down  to  await  her  home-coming,  b'  t  oh !  the 
house  was  very  sad  and  still  and  lonely !  Never  be- 
fore had  I  realised  how  much  her  presence  in  it  had 
meant  to  nie.     I  made  some  tea  and  ate  some  bread  and 


A  CHKQUE  AND  A  CHFX'K 


331 


liulter,  and  that  night  I  went  to  bed  very  early  and 
(lid  not  sleep  at  all.  Next  morning  I  made  some  more 
t»ii  and  ate  some  more  bread  and  butter,  but  I  did  not 
wa^h  any  dislies.      I  was  too  sad  to  do  that. 

'llie  next  day  crawled  past  in  the  sume  lugubrious 
way.  I  went  to  the  police  and  reported  her  disappear- 
ance, and  they  began  to  search  for  her.  I  approached 
the  Morgue  to  make  daily  inquiries  with  fear  and 
trembling.  I  spent  my  days  'u\  looking  for  her. 
I'.verv  one  sympathised  with  me,  as,  wan  and  woc- 
iNgone,  I  wandered  round  the  Quarter.  1  did  not 
sptak  of  my  trouble  but  the  whole  world  seemed  to 
knf)w,  and  the  general  opinion  seemed  to  be  that  she  had 
gone  of}'  with  some  other  man.  They  hinted  at  this, 
and  advised  me  to  forget  her. 

*'  I  can't  forget  her,"  I  cried  to  myself.  "  I  never 
dreamed  she  meant  so  much  to  me.  Over  and  over 
again  I  live  the  time  we  spent  together.  Looking 
back  now,  it  seems  so  happy,  the  happiest  time  in  my 
I  Iff.  And  to  be  separated  all  through  a  wretched  mis- 
imderstanding!" 

And  every  night  I  would  sit  all  alone  in  the  apart- 
imnt,  brooding  miserably,  and  hoping  every  moment 
to  hear  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  to  find  that  she  had 
come  back  to  me.  But  as  time  went  on  this  hope 
faded.  Once,  when  I  saw  them  fishing  a  drowned  girl 
out  of  the  Seine,  I  had  a  moment  of  terrible  fear. 
There  in  the  boat  it  lay,  a  dripping,  carrion  thing,  and 
with  a  thousand  others  I  pressed  to  peer.  With  re- 
lief, I  saw  that  the  cadaver  had  fair  hair. 

I  began  to  write  again,  but  the  old,  gay,  whimsical 
spirit  had  gone  out  of  me,  and  in  its  place  was  one  of 
bitterness.     Yet   1   was  prospering  amazingly.     Torn, 


f}.'}9 


THE  PRDTF.NDER 


Dick-  and  Ilarri/  was  selling  among  the  popular  books 
in  the  Anitricun  market,  and  it  lookecl  as  if  the  new- 
hook  was  going  to  he  wjually  successful.  Already  liad 
I  nceived  a  royalty'  cheque  for  three  thousand  dollars, 
and  I  had  spent  most  of  it  in  hiring  private  detectives 
to  search  for  Anastasia.  For  six  months  I  believed 
I  looked  the  most  wretched  man  in  Paris.  You  see, 
I  was  playing  the  part  of  the  Deserted  Husband  as 
splendidly  as  I  had  played  all  my  other  parts.  Yet 
never  did  I  fail  to  minutely  analyse  and  record  my 
feelings,  and  even  in  my  blackest  woe  I  seemed  to  find 
a  somewl>at  Byronic  satisfaction.  Never  did  I  cease 
to  be  the  egotistic  artist. 

But  all  my  searcliings  were  vain.  The  girl  seemed 
to  have  disappeared  as  if  the  Seine  had  swallowed  her. 
I  was  wasting  my  life  in  vain  regrets,  so  after  six 
months  had  gone  1  put  my  affairs  into  the  hands  of  a 
divorce  lawyer,  and  having  fulfilled  all  tlie  requirements 
of  French  law,  I  sailed  for  America. 


CHAPTER  X 

PRINT F  OF  DREAM F,RS 

I  WAS  lucky  in  getting  a  state-room  on  the  Garguan- 
fiiati,  and  on  reading  over  the  list  of  passengers  I  saw  a 
name  that  seemed  vaguely  familiar.  Miss  B.  Tevandalc. 
Where  had  I  heard  it  before? 

Then  my  memory  sluggishly  prompted  me.  Wasn't 
there  a  Miss  Boadicea  Tevandale  who  had  played  some 
part  in  my  life?  Oh,  Irony!  when  we  recall  our  past 
loves  and  have  difficulty  in  remembering  their  names ! 

For  the  first  two  days  the  weather  was  very  unset- 
tling and  I  decided  that  I  would  better  sustain  my  dig- 
nity by  remaining  in  my  cabin.  On  the  third,  how- 
ever, I  ventured  on  deck,  and  there  sure  enough  I  saw 
a  Junoesquc  female  striding  mannishly  up  and  down. 
Yes,  it  was  Boadicea.  She  was  looking  exasperatingly 
fit  —  I  had  almost  written  fat;  but  really,  she  seemed 
to  have  grown  positively  adipose. 

"  Miss  Tevandale." 

"  Mr.  Madden." 

"  Why,  you  look  wretched,"  she  said,  after  the  first 
greetings  were  over. 

"Yes;  I'm  a  little  seedy,"  I  answered  wanly. 
"  Haven't  quite  got  my  sea-legs  yet.  But  you  seem  a 
good  sailor?  " 

*'  Aggressively   so.     But   where   have   you   been   all 

this  time?     What  wild,  strange  land  has  been  claiming 

you?     All  the  world  wondered.     It  seemed  as  if  you 

had  dropped  ofF  the  earth.'* 

333 


334 


THE  phi:ti:ndeh 


"  I've  been  concealing  nivself  in  the  heart  of  civilisa- 
tion. And  3'ou?  I  thought  you  would  have  been  Mrs. 
Jarraway  Tope  by  now." 

"Why!  Didn't  you  get  my  letter?  I  wrote  just 
after  you  left  to  say  that  I  had  broken  off  my  engage- 
ment.'' 

"  No ;  the  letter  never  reached  me.  I  supi)ose  it  got 
side-tracked  somewhere.  So  you  tlidn't  marry  Jar- 
raway after  all.     Well,  well,  it's  a  funny  world." 

"  You  don't  seem  tremendously  excited  at  the 
news." 

"  Ah !  You  want  me  to  ask  why  you  broke  it  off. 
I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  not  think  I  .lad  the  right 
to  ask  that." 

"  If  you  have  no  right,  who  has?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  quite  understand." 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  words  you  said  when  last 
we  met  ?  " 

I  blush  to  say  I  did  not  remember,  but  I  answered 
emotionally : 

"  Yes :  they  are  engraven  on  my  memory  forever." 

"  Then  can  you  wonder? " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  it  was  on  my  account  you 
broke  off  your  marriage  with  a  millionaire?" 

She  answered  me  with  a  shade  of  bitterness. 

"  Listen,  Horace ;  there  need  be  no  mincing  of  mat- 
ters between  us  two.  Since  I  saw  you  last  1  have  been 
greatly  interested  in  Woman's  Suffrage.  In  fact  I 
have  been  devoting  myself  body  and  soul  to  the  Cause. 
Even  now  I  am  returning  from  a  series  of  meetings  in 
England,  which  I  attended  as  a  delegate  from  New 
York,  and  mixing  with  these  noble-minded  women  has 
completely   cured   me   of   that   false   modesty   that   so 


PRINCE  OF  DKEAMEKS 


335 


Iiaiulicnps  our  si-x.  I  believe  now  that  it  is  a  woman's 
privilege,  just  as  .  :u:-h  ns  a  man's,  to  declare  her  af- 
fection. Horace,  i  love  vou.  I  have  always  loved 
you  from  that  day.     Will  you  be  my  husband?" 

I  grew  pale.     I  hung  my  head.     My  lips  trembled. 

"  Boadicea,"  I  faltered,  "  I  cannot.  It  is  too  late. 
I  am  already  marritil." 

I  saw  the  strong  woman  shrink  as  if  she  had  received 
a  l)I()w.     Then  quickly  she  recovered  herself. 

"How  was  it."     Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said  quickly. 

So  there,  as  we  watched  the  rolling  of  the  whale- 
grey  sea  and  each  billow  seemed  part  of  a  cosmic  con- 
spiracy to  upset  my  equilibrium,  I  told  her  the  story  of 
Aiiastasia's  desertion. 

"  Of  course,"  I  said  brokenly,  "  I'll  never  see  her 
again.  In  fact,  eve";  now  I  am  sueing  for  a  divorce. 
In  a  few  months  I  expect  to  be  a  free  man." 

"  My  dearest  friend,  you  have  my  sympathy." 

Under  the  cover  of  our  rugs  I  felt  her  strong  capable 
hand  steal  to  meet  mine.  Here  was  a  fine,  lofty  soul 
who  could  solace  and  understand  me.  This  big,  hand- 
some woman,  with  the  cool,  crisp  voice,  with  the  clear, 
calm  eye,  with  the  features  of  confidence  and  command, 
was  surely  one  on  whom  a  heart-broken  world-weary 
man  could  lean  a  little  in  his  hour  of  weakness  and  trou- 
ble. I  returned  the  pressure  of  that  large  firm  hand, 
and,  moved  by  an  emotion  I  could  no  longer  suppress, 
I  turned  and  dived  below. 

There  is  no  matchmaker  like  the  Atlantic  Ocean; 
and  so  as  the  days  went  on  I  grew  more  and  more  taken 
with  the  idea  of  espousing  Boadicea.  As  we  sat  there 
in  our  steamer  chairs  and  watched  the  shrill  wind 
whip  the  billow  peaks  to  spray,  and  the  sudden  rain- 


336 


THE  PRETENDER 


Ijows  glcuiu  in  till'  silvery  spcndrift  I  listened  to  her 
arguments  in  favour  of  the  Suffrage  and  they  seemed 
to  me  unnnswerahle.  I,  too,  became  inspired  with  a 
fierce  passion  tc  devote  my  life  to  the  Cause,  to  enter 
and  throw  myself  in  the  struggle  of  sex,  to  play  my 
huiiihle  part  in  the  Woman's  War.  And  in  Boadicea 
I  had  found  my  Joan  of  Arc. 

So  as  we  shook  hands  on  the  New  York  pier  we  had 
every  intention  of  seeing  one  another  again. 

"  Vou  have  helped  me  greatly  with  your  noble  sym- 
pathy," I  said. 

"  You  have  cheered  me  greatly  with  your  splendid 
understanding,"  she  answered. 
*'  We  are  comrades." 

"  Yes,  we  are  good  comrades  —  in  the  Cause." 
She  had  to  go  West  on  a  lecturing  tour,  and  it  was 
some  ntonths  before  I  saw  her  again.     When  I  did,  my 
first  words  were: 

"  Boadicea,  I'm  a  free  man." 
"Are  \o\i?  Htw  does  it  feel?" 
"  Not  at  all  natural.  I  don't  believe  I'll  ever  be 
satisfied  till  I'm  chained  to  the  car  again.  Boadicea, 
do  you  remember  those  words  you  spoke  that  day  we 
met  on  the  Garguantmm?  Does  your  proposition 
still  hold  good?" 

"\^'hat  proposition?" 

"  Let  us  unite  our  forces.  Let  us  fight  side  by  side. 
Boadicea,  will  you  not  change  your  name  to  Madden? 
You  know  mv  sad  history.  Here  then  I  offer  vou  the 
fragments  of  my  heart." 

"  Oh,  don't.     You  make  me  feel  like  a  cannibal." 
"  Here  then  I  offer  you  my  hand  and  name.     I  will 
try  to  make  you  the  most  devoted  of  husbands."     "* 


PRINCE  OF  DREAMERS 


337 


"  I  am  .-.ure  you  will.  Horace,  we  will  work  together 
for  the  good  of  the  Cause." 

A  month  after  we  were  married  and  spent  our  honey- 
moon in  London,  chiefly  in  attending  Suffragette  meet- 
ings. Very  soon  I  began  to  discover  that  being  wedded 
to  ft  woman  who  is  wedded  to  a  Cause  is  like  being 
till'  understudy  of  yrn/  wife's  husband.  And  if  that 
latlior  militant  suffragette  happens  to  be  a  millionair- 
ess then  one's  negligibility  is  humiliatingly  accentuated. 
I  WHS  only  a  millionaire  in  francs,  while  Boadicea  was 
a  niillionairess  in  dollars,  and  the  disparity  of  values 
in  national  currency  began  to  become  more  and  more  a 
painful  fact  to  me. 

I  WHS  not  long,  too,  in  discovering  that  my  sympathy 
with  the  Cause  was  only  skin  deep.  Indeed,  my  sud- 
flrnly  discovered  enthusiasm  had  surprised  even  my- 
self. It  was  unlike  me  to  become  so  interested  in  real, 
vital  questions,  that  more  than  once  I  suspected  myself 
of  being  a  hypocrite.  At  long  distance  the  idea  of 
Woman  finding  herself  fascinated  me  just  as  socialism 
fascinated  mc.  I  could  dream  and  idealise  and  let  my 
imagination  paint  wonderful  pictures  of  a  woman's 
world,  but  once  the  matter  became  concrete,  my  en- 
thusiasm took  wings.  Then  it  was  I  had  my  first  tiff 
with  Boadicea. 

"  Boa,  I  don't  want  to  march  in  the  demonstration 
on  Sunday,"  I  said  peevishly. 

"Why  not,  Horace.^"  demanded  Boadicea  with  dis- 
pleasure. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  like  the  male  suffragettes.  They 
look  so  like  fowls.  They  remind  me  of  vegetarians 
or  temperance  cranks.  Some  of  the  fellows  in  the  club 
chaffed  me  awfully  the  last  time  I  marched  with  them." 


338 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  Oh,  very  well,  Horace.  Please  yourself.  Only  I'm 
just  a  little  disappointed  in  you." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  so  much,"  I  went  on,  "  if  the 
women  were  inspiring,  but  they're  not.  In  the  last 
demonstration  I  couldn't  help  remarking  that  nearly 
all  the  women  who  marched  were  homely  and  unattrac- 
tive, while  those  who  watched  the  procession  were  often 
awfully  pretty  and  interesting.  N^w,  couldn't  you  re- 
verse the  thing  —  let  the  homely  ones  line  up  and  let 
the  pretty  ones  march?  Then  I'd  venture  to  bet  you'd 
convert  half  the  men  on  the  spot." 

Boadicea  stared.  This  was  appalling  heresy  on  my 
part;  but  I  went  on  bravely. 

"Another  thing:  why  don't  they  dress  better?  Do 
they  think  that  the  inspiration  of  a  great  cause  justi- 
fies them  in  being  dowdy?  I  tell  you,  well-fitting  cor- 
sets and  dainty  shoes  will  do  more  for  the  freedom  of 
woman  than  all  the  argimiont  in  the  world.  Coax  the 
Vote  from  the  men;  don't  bully  them.  You'll  get  it  if 
you're  chamiing  enough.  Therein  lies  your  real 
strength  —  not  in  your  intellect,  but  in  3'our  charm." 

"  Don't  tell  me,  Horace,  you're  like  all  tlie  rest  of 
the  men.  A  woman  with  a  pretty  face  can  turn  you 
round  her  finger !  " 

"  I'm  sadly  like  most  men,  I  find.  I  prefer  charm 
and  prettiness  to  character  and  intellect;  just  as  in 
my  youth  I  preferred  bad  boys  to  good.  But,  in  any 
case,  I  refuse  to  march  any  more  with  these  *  vieux 
tableaux.*     Remember  I  have  a  se;.se  of  humour." 

"But  all  your  enthusiasm?  Your  boiling  indigna- 
tion?    Your  thought  of  our  wrongs?" 

"  Has  all  been  overwhelmed  by  my  sense  of  humour. 


PRINCE  OF  DREAMERS 


339 


One  can  only  afford  to  take  trivial  things  seriously, 
and  sorious  tilings  trivially." 

"  So  you  are  going  to  throw  us  over?  " 

*'  Not  at  all.  I  believe  in  the  Cause,  but  I  won't 
march.  The  cause  of  woman  would  be  all  right  if 
thi-rc  were  no  women  —  I  mean  the  chief  enemy  to 
women's  suffrage  is  the  suffragette.  No  woman  has 
more  influence  than  the  French  woman.  It  is  all  the 
more  powerful  because  it  is  indirect.  It  is  based  on 
love.  A  Frenchwoman  knows  that  to  coax  is  better 
than  to  bully." 

"  Oh,  you're  always  praising  up  the  French  women. 
Why  don't  you  go  over  to  Paris  to  live,  if  you  are  so 
fond  of  them?" 

"  I  never  want  to  set  foot  in  Paris  again.'* 

"  But  what  about  me?  I've  never  been  there.  Am 
I  never  to  see  it  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  you  would  like  it." 

"  I  think  I  would.  I  think  we'd  fcter  go  over  there 
for  the  Spring." 

Any  opposition  on  mv  part  made  her  determined,  so 
that  if  I  wanted  a  thing  very  much  I  had  to  pretend 
the  very  opposite.  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  had  ex- 
pressed a  keen  wish  to  go  to  Paris  she  would  have  ob- 
jected strenuously.  Her  nature  was  very  antagonis- 
tic. I  admired  her  greatly  for  her  intellect,  for  her 
character;  but  she  was  one  of  those  self-possessed,  logi- 
cal, clear-brained  women  who  get  on  your  nerves,  and 
every  day  she  was  getting  more  and  more  on  mine. 

We  took  an  Italian  Palace  near  the  Pare  Monceau, 
bought  a  limousine,  kept  a  dozen  servants,  moved  in 
the  Embassy  crowd  and  had  our  names  in  the  Society 


340 


THE  PRETENDER 


column  of  the  New  York  paper  nearly  every  day. 
Life  became  one  beastly  nuisance  after  another  — 
luncheons,  balls,  dinners,  theatre  parties.  I,  who  had 
a  Bohemian  hatred  of  dressing,  had  to  dress  every 
evening.  I,  who  dreaded  making  an  engagement  be- 
cause it  interfered  with  my  liberty,  found  myself  obliged 
to  keep  a  book  in  which  I  recorded  my  too  numerous 
engagements.  I,  who  had  so  strenuously  objected  to 
the  constraints  of  company,  was  obliged  to  force  smiles 
and  stroke  people  the  right  way  for  hours  on  end. 
Was  there  ever  such  a  slavery?  It  seemed  as  if  I  never 
had  a  moment  in  which  I  could  call  my  soul  my  own. 
I  was  bored,  heart-sick,  goaded  to  rebellion. 

"  Why  can't  we  be  simple,  even  if  we  are  rich  ?  **  I 
remonstrated.  **  It  would  be  far  less  trouble  and  we'd 
be  far  happier.  I'm  tired  of  trying  to  live  up  to  my 
valet.  Let's  cut  out  this  society  racket  and  live  nat- 
urally." 

"  We  can't.  We  must  live  up  to  our  position.  It's 
our  duty.  Besides,  I  like  this  *  society  racket  *  as  you 
so  vulgarly  call  it.  It  gives  me  an  opportunity  to 
impress  people  with  my  views.  And  really,  Horace, 
I  think  you're  too  ungrateful.  You  should  be  glad  of 
the  opportunity  of  meeting  so  many  nice  people." 

"  Like  Hades  I  should !  Do  you  call  that  Irish 
countess  we  had  for  lunch  nice?  She  had  a  long  face 
like  a  horse,  blotched  and  covered  with  hair,  and  spoke 
with  the  accent  of  a  washerwoman.  And  that  stiiF 
Englishman  — " 

"  You  can't  deny  Sir  Charles  is  awfully  good  form." 

"  (Jood  form  be  hanged !  I  think  he's  a  pig-headed 
a>s.  I  couldn't  open  my  mouth  without  treading  on 
his  traditional  corns.     American  Spread-eagleism  isn't 


PRINTE  OF  DREAMERS 


341 


in  it  with  Britisli  Lionrnmpantism.  We  have  a  sense 
of  humour  that  makes  us  laugh  at  our  weaknesses,  hut 
the  Englishman's  are  sacred.  Tlmt  Englishman  actu- 
ally believed  that  the  masses  were  lK?ing  educated  be- 
yond their  station,  believed  that  they  should  be  kept 
in  the  place  they  belonged." 

"  Really  you're  disgustingly  democratic.  What's 
the  use  of  having  money  if  it  doesn't  make  one  better 
than  other  people  who  haven't?  As  for  Sir  Charles; 
I  think  he's  perfectly  charming.'* 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  You're  aping  the  English,  like 
all  the  Americans  who  come  over  here.  Everything's 
perfectly  charming,  or  perfectly  dreadful.  You'll 
soon  be  ashamed  of  your  own  nationality.  Bah!  of 
all  snobs  the  Anglo-American  one's  the  most  contempti- 
ble. Of  all  poses  the  cosmopolitan  one's  the  most  dis- 
gusting." 

"  Really  your  language  is  rather  strong." 

"  It's  going  to  be  stronger  before  I'm  finished.  I've 
been  sitting  quiet  in  my  little  corner  taking  notes  on 
you  and  your  friends,  and  I've  got  the  stuff  for  a  book 
out  of  our  little  splurflrc  in  society.  There's  a  good 
many  of  your  friends  in  it.  Madam.  I  fear  they'll  cut 
you  dead  after  they  read  it." 

"  If  you  publish  such  a  work  I'll  get  a  divorce." 

"  Go  and  get  one." 

"  Oh,  you're  a  brute,  a  brute ! " 

Here  Boadicea  stamped  a  number  six  shoe  furiously 
on  the  floor. 

"  Yes,  and  Pm  glad  of  it.  To  woman's  duplicity  let 
us  men  oppose  our  brutality.  When  the  worst  comes 
to  the  worst  we  can  always  fall  back  on  the  good  old 
system  of  *  spanking.'  " 


342 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  Oh !    Oh ! 
cally  capable." 


You   dare   not.     You   arc   not   physi- 


"  Is  tliat  so?     You're  a  strong  woman,  Boa;  but  I 
still  think  I  could  use  the  flat  of  a  nice  broad  slipper  on 


»» 


you 

She  was  speechless  with  wrath.  Then,  with  another 
exclamation  of  *'  brute,"  she  marched  from  the  room. 
Soon  after  I  heard  her  order  the  car  and  go  out. 

"  Yes,"  I  murmured  bitterly  to  my  cigarette,  "  seems 
like  you'd  caught  a  Tartar  this  time.  Aren't  you 
sorry  you  ever  married  again  .^  How  different  it  was 
before.     Let's  see.     What's  on  to-night?" 

My  little  book  showed  me  that  I  was  due  to  dine  with 
an  ambassador. 

*'  What  a  nuisance !  I've  got  to  dress.  I've  got  to 
stoke  my  physical  machine  with  food  that  isn't  suited 
to  it.  I've  got  to  murmur  inanities  to  some  under- 
dressed  female.  How  I  hate  it  all!  There  was  my 
old  grandfather  now.  He  died  leaving  a  million,  but 
up  to  his  death  he  lived  as  simpl}'  as  the  day  he  began 
working  for  wages.  Ah !  there  was  a  happy  man.  I 
remember  when  he  used  to  come  home  for  supper  at 
night  they  would  bring  him  two  bowls,  one  full  of  hot 
mashed  potatoes,  the  other  of  sweet,  fresh  mi!k.  He 
would  eat  with  a  horn  spoon,  taking  it  half  full  of  po- 
tatoes, then  loading  up  with  milk.  And  how  he  en- 
joyed it!  What  a  glorious  luxury  it  would  be  to  sit 
down  to-night  to  a  bowl  of  potatoes  and  a  bowl  of 
milk ! " 

I  stared  drearily  round  the  great  room  which  we  had 
sub-let  from  the  mistress  of  a  Grand  Duke.  Such 
lavish  luxury  of  mirror  and  marble,  of  silk  and  satin- 
wood,  furnished  by  an  artist  to  satisfy  an  epicure! 


PRINCE  OF  DREAMERS 


843 


Sumptuous  splendour  I  suppose  j'ou  would  call  it. 
But  oil,  what  would  I  not  give  to  be  back  once  more  in 
the  garret  of  the  rue  Gracieuse!  Ay,  even  there 
with  its  calico  curtains  and  its  home-made  furniture. 
Or  sitting  down  to  a  dinner  of  roast  chicken  and  Veuve 
Amiot  with  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can't  bear  to  mention  even  her 
name!  The  thought  of  her  brings  a  choke  to  my 
throat  and  a  mist  to  my  eyes.  .  .  .  How  happy  I  was 
tlun,  and  I  didn't  know  it!  And  how  good  she  was! 
just  a  good  '  UIp  girl.  I  didn't  think  half  enough  of 
hir.     What  ^  mistake  it's  all  been !  '* 

I  stared  at  the  burnt  out  cigarette,  reflecting  bit- 
terly. 

"  I  should  never  have  come  back  to  this  Paris.  It 
just  makes  me  unhappy.  At  every  turn  of  the  street 
I  expect  to  suddenly  come  face  to  face  with  her.  I 
can't  bear  to  visit  the  rive  gaiiche.  It's  haunted  for 
me.  I  see  myself  as  I  was  then,  swinging  my  old 
cherry-wood  cane  as  I  strode  so  buoyantly  along  the 
quays.  Every  foot  of  that  old  Latin  Quarter  has  its 
memory.     I  can't  go  there  again.     It's  too  painful." 

I  rose  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  God !  wasn't  I  happy  though !  Remember  the 
afternoons  in  the  Luxembourg  and  the  Bal  Bullier,  and 
the  Boul'  Mich'.  How  I  loved  it  all !  How  I  used  to 
linger  gazing  at  the  old  houses !  How  I  used  to  dream, 
and  thrill,  and  gladden!  Oh,  the  wonder  of  the  Seine 
by  night,  the  work,  the  struggle,  the  visits  to  the  Mont- 
de-Piete,  the  careless  God-given  Bohemian  days!  It 
hurts  me  now  to  think  of  them.  ...  It  hurts 
me.  .  .  ." 

Going  over  to  the  mantelpiece  I  leaned  one  elbow  on 
it,  looking  down  drearily  at  the  fire. 


d44 


THE  PRETENDER 


"  Ah,  Little  Thing!  How  glad  she  always  was  when 
I  came  home!  I  can  fetl  her  arms  round  n>y  neck  as 
she  welcomed  me,  feel  her  soft  kisses,  sec  the  little  room 
all  bright  and  cheery.  Oh,  if  these  days  Would  only 
come  again!  Where  is  she  now,  I  wonder?  Poor, 
poor  Little  Thing." 

As  I  stood  there  like  a  man  stricken,  miserable  be- 


yond all  words,  suddenly 
seemed  to  leave  my  heart, 
the  butler  in  the  hall. 

*'  Is   Madam   in   please.? 
hem-hroderie  she  want  see. 


I   started.     All    the   blood 
Some  one  was  talking  to 

I  have  bring  some  leetle 
She  tell  me  to  come  now." 


Just  a  tired,  quiet,  colourless  voice,  interrupted  by 
a  sudden  cough,  yet  oh,  how  sweet,  how  heaven-sweet 
to  me!     Again  I  listened. 

"  Oh,  she  have  gone  out.  I  am  so  sorry.  She  have 
made  appointment  wiz  me  for  now  and  I  have  not  much 
time.  I  will  leave  my  hem'-broderie  for  Madam  to  re- 
gard.    Then  I  will  call  again  to-morrow." 

She  was  going,  but  I  could  not  restrain  myself. 

"  Thomas,"  I  said  to  the  man,  "  call  her  back.  I 
will  make  a  selection  of  her  work  for  Madam." 

As  I  stood  there  by  the  mantelpiece  with  head  bent, 
waiting,  I  saw  in  the  mirror  the  crimson  curtains 
parted,  and  there  stood  a  little,  grey  figure,  shrinking, 
shabby,  surprised.  Then  I  turned  slowly  and  once 
again  we  were  face  to  face. 

"Little  Thing!" 

She  started.  Her  hand  in  its  shabby,  cotton  glove 
went  up  to  her  throat,  and  she  made  a  step  as  if  she 
would  throw  herself  in  my  arms. 

"You?" 


PIUNCE  OF  DREAMERS 


345 


"  Ve«,"  I  sftid  inisfrably.     "  I  never  thought  to  set- 
It   would 


you. 


you  again. 

"  And  I   did   not   sink   I  evaire   see 
liave  been  better  not." 

"  It  would ;  but  I'm  glad,  I'm  glad.'* 

"  Yes,  I  am  glad  too,  for  I  want  to  say  how  sorry 
I  am  I  leave  you  like  that.  I  was  mad  wiz  jealousy.  I 
could  not  help  it.  After,  I  want  very  much  keel  my- 
self, but  I  have  promised  you  I  do  not." 

"  So,  no,  it  was  my  fault.  I  could  have  explained 
everything  so  easily.  But  after  all,  it's  too  late. 
What  does  it  matter  now?  " 

"  No,  it  does  not  mattaire  much  now.  I  am  so  glad 
for  you  you  have  got  divorce  from  me.  I  am  very  bad 
womans.     Please  excuse  me." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  forgive  me.  I  never  cared  enough 
for  you  —  or  at  least  I  never  showed  I  cared.  Now 
I  know." 

"  You  care  now.  Oh,  that  will  make  me  so  happy. 
You  know  there  is  not  much  longer  for  me.  The  doc- 
tor tell  me  so.     I  am  poitrinaire." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  resigned  little 
grimace. 

"  But,"  she  went  on,  "  now  I  shall  be  so  glad.  I 
don't  care  for  myself.  You  remember  for  laughing 
you  used  to  call  me  *  Poor  leetle  Sing,'  and  I  say :  ♦  No, 
I  am  not  poor  leetle  sing,  I  am  very,  very,  'appy  leetle 
sing.'     Ah !  but  now  I  am  poor  leetle  sing  indeed." 

"  Can  I  not  help  you?     I  must." 

•'  No,  I  will  take  nussing  from  you.  And  anyway  it 
would  not  help  much.  I  make  enough  from  my  hem- 
broderie  to  leeve,  and  I  don't  want  any  pleasure  some 


346 


THE  PRETENDER 


more.  Just  to  lecve.  The  sisters  at  the  convent  are 
very  good  to  me.  I  see  them  often,  and  when  I  am  sick 
at  the  last  I  know  they  will  care  for  me.  Really  1  am 
very  well.     Now  I  must  go ;  I  must  work ;  I  lose  time." 

"  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  let  me  do  something ! " 

"  No,  I  am  very  good.  I  sink  at  you  always,  and  I 
bless  you.     You  see  I  have  the  good  souvenirs." 

From  the  breast  of  her  threadbare  jacket  she  took  a 
worn-  silver  locket  and  showed  me  a  little  snapshot  of 
myself. 

"  There,  I  have  the  souvenir  of  happy  days.  Now 
I  must  go." 

She  looked  very  frail,  and  of  a  colour  almost  trans- 
parent. She  tried  hard  to  smile.  Then  she  swayed  as 
if  she  would  faint,  but  recovered  herself  by  clutching  at 
a  chair. 

«  Little  Thing,"  I  said,  « it's  too  late,  but  we  must 
at  least  shake  hands." 

She  pulled  off  a  grey  cotton  glove  and  held  out  a 
hand  all  toilworn  and  needle-warped. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said  wearily. 

I  seized  the  little  thin  hand,  conscious  that  my  hot 
tears  were  falling  on  it.  Looking  up,  I  saw  that  her 
eyes  too  were  a-stream  with  tears. 

"  Good-bye,"  I  said  chokingly. 

"  Good-bye,  darlecn,  good-bye  for  evaire  .  .  ." 

That  was  all.  She  turned  and  left  me  standing 
there.  I  heard  her  coughing  as  she  went  downstairs. 
Sinking  down  I  sobbed  as  if  my  heart  would 
break.  .  .  , 

•  ♦••••• 

"What's  the  mnttairo,  darlecn?" 

It  seemed  as  if  some  one  was  shaking  me  violently. 


PRINCE  OF  DREAMERS 


847 


My  pillow  was  wet  with  tears  and  the  sobs  still  con- 
vulsed me.  I  opened  staring  eyes,  eyes  that  fell  on 
a  dretting  table  of  walnut,  an  armoire  vith  mirror 
doort,  and  cretonne  curtains,  with  a  design  of  little 
roset.  Yet  I  stared  more,  for  Anastasia,  fresh  and 
dainty,  but  with  a  face  of  great  concern,  was  bending 
over  nic. 

"What's  the  mottairc,  darlecn?  For  ten  minutes 
I  try  to  wake  you  up.  You  have  been  having  bad 
dream.     You  cry  dreadful." 

"Dream!  Dream!  Am  I  mad?  .  .  .  Where  am  I 
now?  .  .  .  Tell  me  quick." 

"  Oh,  darleen,  what's  the  mattaire  ?  You  afTrighten 
me  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no;  what's  the  address  of  this  house?  " 

"  Passage  d'Enfcr." 

"And  the  date  .  .  .?     What's  the  date?*' 

"  The  twelve  Novembre." 

"  But  the  year,  the  year  ?  '* 

"  Why  the  year  is  Nineteen  hundred  thirteen." 

"  Thank  God !  I  thought  it  was  nineteen  fourteen." 
Then  the  whole  truth  flashed  on  me.  Prince  of  Dream- 
ers! In  a  night  I  had  dreamed  the  events  of  a  whole 
year  of  life.  Yesterday  was  the  day  of  my  accident, 
and  this  morning  —  why,  I  had  to  pass  my  examina- 
tion for  a  chauffeur's  licence;  this  morning  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  it  was  now  eleven.     Too  late. 

Yet  I  did  not  care  then  for  a  thousand  Inspectors. 
I  was  not  married  to  Boadicea.  I  still  had  Little 
Thing.     I  vow  I  was  the  happiest  man  in  the  world. 

"Pack  everything  up,"  I  said.  "We  leave  for 
America  to-morrow." 

•  •••••• 


3i8 


THE  PRETKNDER 


Oncv  more  I  sat  in  the  favourite  ehnir  of  my  fjivour- 
itr  club,  suneying  the  incredible  bank  book.  Figures! 
Figures!  More  formidably  than  ever  they  loomed  up. 
r'seless  indeed  to  try  and  cope  with  this  flood  of  for- 
tune. 

And  now  that  I  had  two  reputations  to  keep  up,  the 
flood  was  more  insistent  than  ever.  Not  only  were 
there  the  best-sellers  of  Norman  Dane  to  bargain  with, 
but  also  the  best-sellers  of  Silenus  Starset.  And  for 
my  own  modest  needs,  with  Anastasia's  careful  manage- 
ment, my  little  patrimony  more  than  sufl'iced.  What 
then  was  I  going  to  do  with  these  senseless  figures  that 
insisted  so  in  piling  up,  and  yet  meant  nothing  to  me? 
Suddenly  the  solution  flashed  on  me,  and  as  if  it  were 
an  illuminated  banner  I  saw  the  words: 


James   Horace   Maddex,   Philaxthropist. 

That  was  it.  This  wonderful  gift  of  mine  that  made 
the  acquisition  of  money  so  easy,  what  should  I  do 
with  it  but  exercise  it  for  the  good  of  humanity." 

Yes,  I  would  be  a  philanthropist ;  but  on  whom  would 
I  philanthrope." 

The  answer  was  easy.  Who  better  desened  my  help 
than  my  fellow-scribes  who  had  failed,  those  high  and 
delicate  souls  who  had  scorned  to  commercialise  their 
art,  who  were  true  to  themselves  and  fought  for  all  that 
was  best  in  literature."  Even  as  there  was  a  home  for 
old  actors,  so  I  would  found  one  for  old  authors,  bat- 
tered, beaten  veterans  of  the  pen,  who  in  their  declining 
years  would  find  rest,  shelter,  sympathy  under  a  gen- 
erous roof. 

Yes,  writing  popular  fiction  had  become  a  habit  with 


PRINCE  OF  DREAMERS 


349 


uio,  almost  a  vice.  I  was  afraid  I  could  never  give  it 
up.  But  here  would  be  my  extenuation.  The  money 
the  public  gave  me  for  pleasing  them  I  would  spend  on 
those  others  who,  because  they  were  artists,  failed  to 
ploHse.  And  in  ihis  way  at  least  I  would  indirectly 
he  of  some  use  to  literature. 

Then  again;  what  a  splendid  example  it  would  be  to 
my  brother  best-seller  makers,  turning  out  their  three 
books  a  year  and  their  half  dozen  after  they  are  dead. 
Let  them,  too,  show  their  zeal  for  literatun  by  de- 
voting the  bulk  of  their  ill-gotten  gains  to  its  encour- 
itgenient. 

The  club  had  changed  very  little.  "^  saw  the  same 
nieinbers,  looking  a  little  more  mutinous  «bout  the  waist 
line.  There  was  Vane  and  Quince,  qualifying  perhaps 
for  my  home.  I  greeted  them  cordially,  aglow  with 
altruism.  After  all,  it  was  a  day  of  paltry  achieve- 
ment. We  were  all  small  men,  and  none  of  us  weighed 
on  the  scale.  I  felt  very  humble  indeed.  Quince  had 
been  right.  I  would  never  be  one  of  those  writers 
whom  all  the  world  admires  —  and  doesnH  read. 
Truly  I  was  one  of  the  goats. 

But  that  night  at  dinner  in  the  Knickerbocker  1 
threw  back  my  head  and  laughed.  And  Anastasia  in 
.1  new  evening  gown  looked  at  me  in  surprise  and  de- 
manded what  was  the  matter.  I  surveyed  her  over  a 
brimming  glass  of  champagne. 

"Extraordinary  thing,"  I  thought;  "isn't  it  ab- 
surd.*    I'm  actually  falling  in  love  with  my  own  wife." 


TII£   END 


